Blood Ties
by LobaEclipse
Summary: G1 pre-war AU : Transformers as human/animal shapeshifters. Prowl and Jazz find happiness in an unexpected way. Blood may be thicker than water, but family is more than blood.
1. Familia

**Disclaimer:** _Transformers_ is the property of Hasbro et al.

**Title:** Blood Ties – Familia

**Rating:** K+

**Word Count:** ~5,750

**Warnings: ** Alternate Universe; kid!fic (no mpreg) with said kid being an OC

**Timeframe/Setting:** G1 pre-war AU. So very, very AU. Set in a world of human/animal shapeshifters where magic and technology live side by side.

**Summary:** Prowl finds himself with an unexpected problem and Jazz finds himself an unexpected gift.

**A/N:** I have no idea where this came from. I'm going to blame it on _Supernatural_ fandom and my ornithology professor.

* * *

><p>The music was much too loud. Jazz could appreciate a good tune and party with the best of them, but the wee hours of the morning after finally falling into bed was not the time for it. He burrowed under his pillow and curled into a ball, hoping to deaden the noise. Under other circumstances he would have probably liked the music. It even sounded vaguely familiar.<p>

Muttering darkly, he peeled one arm out of the blankets to fumble for the phone he'd dropped . . . somewhere. As soon as his fingers touched the plastic case, it fell silent. He retreated under the covers with a groan, fully intending to go back to sleep. It was only a few short hours until he was supposed to drag himself into the station to give his report. Whatever it was could wait 'til then.

The music started again almost immediately. Okay, maybe it couldn't wait. There was a very short list of people who had his personal contact information and none of them were the type to call him twice in a row at two in the morning unless it was important. He grabbed the phone blindly, flipped it open, and shoved it under the pillow against his ear.

"This had better be good." Primus, was that his voice? He sounded like a chain-smoking bulldog with a hangover.

There was a short pause, then, "Jazz. I'm sorry to have awakened you. It – it can wait. Go back to sleep."

"Whoa, hang on, Prowl. You okay?" There was a thread on anxiety in his friend's tone that he did not like at all.

"I'm fine." He sounded like he was telling the truth, at least. "I had thought to ask for your help, but I neglected to notice how late it is. We can deal with it later." The anxiety was still there. Nobody else would have caught it in Prowl's clipped non-accent, but nobody else knew Prowl like Jazz did. And since when did Mr. Hyper-vigilance not pay attention to the time?

"Wait, are you sure? This is usually the other way around. You don't call me at dark-thirty unless it's important, man." Jazz sat up and blinked in the dimness of his bedroom as if by pretending to be more awake he could actually make his brain focus.

There was a short silence on the other end of the line. Jazz could practically hear the gears clicking in his friend's head. "It's not urgent," Prowl said softly. "But I could use your help."

"But you're not hurt?" Prowl was the sort of guy who wouldn't raise a fuss unless he had severed a limb and was bleeding out – and maybe not even then.

"No one is injured or endangered, Jazz," Prowl said and, wow, that hard edge to his voice was enough to make Jazz's sluggish mind snap to attention.

"Are you at home?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Right." Jazz was disentangling himself from his bedding as he spoke. "I'm on my way. Need me to bring anything?" Food, books, clothes, guns – Prowl knew the unspoken list. Anything was possible.

"Just you, Jazz."

"Okay. See ya in a few."

"Alright. Thank you." He hung up before Jazz could say that he was welcome.

He made it to the shower and stood under the cool spray until he felt as awake as he was going to get. He pulled on a set of clothes – clean ones that didn't reek of the filth he'd been immersing himself in for the last few days – stuffed the usual things in his pockets, checked the charms dangling from his collar and was out the door.

Public transports had stopped running hours ago. Prowl could have made the trip from his own apartment to Jazz's in less than ten minutes, but Jazz didn't have his freakishly long legs. He'd make better time with four feet instead of two. He transformed and set off down the sidewalk at a lope.

He'd long ago learned to handle the rush of sensation transforming brought, but tonight he reveled in it. From the stink of automobiles in his nose to the prickle on salt on his paw pads, he let the city sink into his mind and body and awaken him far more thoroughly than any shower could. He kept himself at a steady pace, cautious but not fearful of the handful of people he encountered on his way. Most were in their beast forms – a doe skittering down an alley, a glittering-eyed weasel in the shadows – and he doubted they'd cause him trouble. The rougher side of town it might be, but its denizens knew well enough not to tangle with the dark-furred coyote.

His sleepiness had melted back into the dull ache of exhaustion that he was well used to dealing with by the time he reached the cleaner, wider streets Prowl called home. The gate unlocked for his charm and closed again behind him as he passed through the narrow courtyard. He took the lifts. A brisk run to wake himself up was one thing. A climb up sixteen flights of stairs to reach his friend's apartment on the top floor was something else entirely.

He transformed back into human shape outside the familiar door. The charm to unlock it was beside the gate charm in his pocket, tied in a bundle with other important-but-not-vital charms he kept there. He ran the pad of his thumb over it but raised his fist to knock on the door instead.

Prowl answered it almost immediately.

"Oh," Jazz said intelligently after a minute of shocked silence. "You really do need help don't you?"

He'd been taking stock on the way over and, while he wouldn't say he was ready for anything, he was reasonably sure he could handle whatever non-emergency Prowl had on his hands. But he hadn't really expected to find Prowl holding a baby. Or, rather, a baby holding on to Prowl with all fingers and toes curled in his shirt.

"So, uh, was there someone special you forgot to tell me about?"

Prowl's lips quirked in a wry grin and he shook his head as if he knew better than to expect anything other than snark from Jazz. "She is my cousin, not my daughter."

"Oh. Good, 'cause she don't look a thing like – wait, I thought your whole family was –"

"My second cousin, Tempest, was mated to a mammalian transformer," Prowl said patiently as he stepped back to allow Jazz inside.

Tempest, right. Jazz remembered her. Prowl had actually taken time off of work to go to her funeral a few months ago. Even that brief interaction with his family had left him snippy for days, mostly because the greater majority of the family hadn't even been there. When she had dared to take a mate outside of her taxon, most of them had cut her off. When she and her mate had died in an accident, few of her relatives had even come to pay their respects. Prowl, who had been slowly distancing himself from his old-fashioned, close-minded kin, had virtually dropped all contact with them since then. He hadn't been particularly close to Tempest but they had shared the same streak of independent pride and seeing her snubbed had hurt him deeply. Even Jazz, who had always been somewhat envious of his friend's vast collection of uncles and nieces and cousins living in the same city, couldn't really blame him.

Prowl hadn't mentioned that she'd had a kid – a kid that obviously took after her father. Prowl's avian heritage was blatantly obvious even to someone without Jazz's sense of smell. He was wiry and fair skinned with sharp blue eyes and a sleek crest of feathers instead of human hair. The child in his arms was chubby and dark. Her hair curled in tight ringlets around her ears and she was watching Jazz with wary brown eyes so dark as to be almost black.

Jazz followed the odd pair inside and felt a cold knot of dread settling in his gut. "Who's been looking after her all this time?" he asked softly.

Prowl made a low noise in his throat that wasn't quite a growl, but he fell silent and shushed and stroked the baby when she buried her face in his neck and tightened her grip on his clothes.

He moderated his tone when he answered the question. "She has been in the _care_ –" There was no mistaking his contempt, however calm. "– of Tempest's sister and her mate. They have two fledglings of their own and she is Tempest's closest relative but . . . . The clan meeting was tonight, to settle her affairs."

"I thought the family – I mean, uh . . ." Jazz trailed off lamely.

"Matriarch may not have been happy with her choices but she is a traditionalist. Blood is blood, no matter how 'diluted' it may be. She'll see Tempest's properties managed and her child cared for." He gave himself a little shake and began pacing the length of the wall that held book shelves all the way to the ceiling and only grudgingly spared the surface of the front door.

Jazz settled himself in an armchair and curled his tail around his hip while Prowl paced. The coffee table had been cleared of its usual pile of books and was covered instead with neat rows of laundry and diapers, cans of formula and little jars of pureed stuff that was supposed to be food. A pastel-colored bag sat on the floor beside his feet.

"That's all her things," Prowl said, waving a hand at the table when he turned around at the corner and noticed Jazz's gaze.

"Well, I kinda figured –"

"No, I mean that's _all_ of it. Slipstream had her for months and that's all she bothered to buy to care for the child."

Jazz turned back to the table. The knot of dread was tighter and colder. No blankets or toys, no mementos of her parents or her past life, not even any child-sized dishes for her to learn to eat out of. Sure, there was enough there keep a child clothed and fed, but not much to make her feel happy and loved.

"What happened to her other things? Surely her parents –"

Prowl's lip curled. "Slipstream sold them to cover the costs of her food."

His crest was flaring and smoothing down again as he walked. It should have looked ridiculous. The blood red feathers flicked up and down like an exclamation point over a cartoon character's head. But Jazz knew that to be one of the few signs that the usually patient Prowl was seriously pissed off. If he had been in beast form, he would have been tapping his claws in time with his crest. Nobody laughed at Prowl's sickle claws.

"How old is she?" Jazz said carefully.

"A year and a half."

"Can she talk any?"

"She could. But all she's done since the accident is scream, Stream says."

"Did she ever . . . ?" He couldn't say it, could barely stand to think it, but abuse often went hand in hand with neglect.

Prowl shook his head and his shoulders slumped a little. "Not that I could tell. She's cautious, but she doesn't seem afraid."

As if to prove him right, the little form in his arms uncurled just enough to stare at Jazz again. He smiled at her and let his tail thump against the cushions. She didn't smile back, didn't relax her deathgrip on Prowl one whit, but she didn't hide again, either. Jazz counted it as a victory.

"So how did you end up with her?"

"When Matriarch got it out of Slipstream what she'd been doing – or not doing, as it were – she was furious. So was I. I threatened to drag her up to the station right then."

"Did you?"

"I didn't get the chance. Matriarch turned to me with this glint in her eye and said 'well, it's good to see someone in this family gives a damn about that cub' and then she fobbed her off on me."

"Just like that?"

"Pretty much. What was I supposed to do, Jazz? I can't even trust her own family – _my_ own family – to take care of her."

"And you're really going to keep her?"

"I don't know," Prowl admitted. He sank onto the couch, set the baby in his lap, and practically melted into the furniture. His face was even paler than usual and Jazz wondered when he had last eaten. It was now well past three in the morning.

Well, first things first. He slid off the chair to crouch at eye level with the baby – toddler, really. She was still holding on to bunches of Prowl's shirt but twisted around to stare at Jazz some more. Prowl was watching him, too, as he slowly stretched out his hand to the child. She sniffed it obligingly and unclenched one tiny fist so she could grab his index finger to better examine the silver ring there.

"You didn't tell me her name," he said.

"Stormhunter," Prowl said. She looked up at him and scrunched her nose. He gave her one of his barely-there smiles and made a vain attempt at smoothing her messy curls. "This is my friend Jazz, Stormy," he said just as somberly as if he were talking to a Prime while his eyes glinted with warm amusement.

"Pleased to meet ya, Stormy," Jazz said and her head whipped back to look at him again. She tightened her grip on his finger and went back to studying the ring. "She's real impressed with me, Prowl. I can tell."

"Obviously. You both share a love for shiny things."

"You think you're so clever. But did you remember to feed her?" The baby had moved on to tasting the ring and yep, she had a mouthful of teeth.

"I tried before the trip back. She was emphatically not interested."

"Hm. Maybe let's try it again and then get some sleep. Primus knows I could use some."

"I'm sorry, Jazz, I –"

"Naw, don't start that again. You need help, you ask for it. You'd be lost without me and you know it."

"That's true enough," Prowl huffed and let a chuckling Jazz haul him to his feet.

It wasn't entirely true. Prowl had a firm grasp of the basics, but no real hands-on experience and practical knowledge that came from a childhood that was spent caring for younger siblings the way Jazz had. So he hovered and followed orders while Jazz coaxed some food into Stormy's mouth, wiped off her grubby hands and face, and changed her. Prowl was absorbing information in that intense, vaguely creepy way of his, so Jazz was quick to give pointers and tips. He reminded him that she wouldn't always be this passive, that a fifty-fifty in-the-mouth to on-the-floor ratio was a good benchmark for supper and that a screaming toddler who didn't want a bath was a spectacle that had to be experienced rather than related.

Prowl took it all in stride, or what was more likely, he and Stormhunter were both just going through the motions. They'd process it all later and freak out then. Jazz prayed they could all get some sleep before that happened.

Stormy was blinking slowly in Prowl's arms as they made their way down the short hall to Prowl's bedroom. He didn't comment when Jazz hauled his mattress out of the frame and on to the floor and rearranged the bedding to his liking. He piled the pillows into a nest in the middle of the bed and prodded his friend toward it.

"Most parents bed down on the floor or put up rails for the first few years. Now sleep. The hard part can wait 'til tomorrow," Jazz said. "And I'm stealin' your couch."

Prowl waved his hand vaguely as if to say 'have at it' and toed his shoes off before padding to bed. He peeled Stormy off of his shirt and tucked her into her nest before curling himself around her.

Jazz watched them for a moment, feeling oddly protective, before stumbling to the couch.

ooo

Four hours later, he abandoned the couch.

"Would it kill ya to buy some curtains?" he muttered as he flopped down on the narrow strip of mattress that wasn't occupied by Prowl or Stormy and her nest of pillows.

Prowl cracked one eye open. He was in his beast form, curled in a loop around Stormy with his snout on the fan at the end of his tail. His arms and legs were tucked under his body so that he more closely resembled a feathery, black and white snake than a raptor. He uncoiled himself and leaned up to peer at Stormy. Satisfied that she was snoring away, he transformed into human form and stretched like a cat.

"I like the sunlight," he said softly. "And I'm usually up by now, anyway."

Jazz grumbled something unintelligible and buried his face in a pillow. Even the windows in Prowl's bedroom were draped in sheer fabric that didn't do much to keep the morning outside where it belonged.

"I thought you were on shift today," Prowl said.

"I was. Report can wait."

"Smokescreen will be unhappy."

"Told 'im I needed a day of for – for family reasons."

Prowl hummed quietly in the back of his throat. "Thank you, Jazz."

"For the sixth time, you're welcome, jeez."

Prowl fell silent and sifted around on the bed. "Should we wake her?"

Jazz popped up. "Absolutely not," he hissed. "First rule of parenthood is that the kid dictates the schedule. We sleep when she sleeps."

"Alright," Prowl said in that warm, quiet voice that meant he was doing something against his better judgment to humor his friend. "Go back to sleep, then."

Jazz wanted to give him a smart comeback, but he was out again before he could voice it.

When he awoke again the lighting had changed and Prowl was gone. There was also someone sitting on his chest. He flailed for a moment before he recognized the black eyes now set in the face of a fuzzy brown cub that was more ears and feet than anything else.

"Good mornin' ta you too, Stormy."

Apparently he was less fascinating when awake, because Stormy soon lost interest in him in favor of the transformation charms dangling from her collar. She bucked in a circle over his torso and then slid off in a heap with one of the charms clamped triumphantly between her teeth.

"Easy there, pup," he said, gently prizing her mouth open before she could damage it.

When she spied his ring again and decided to go after that instead he pushed her over and tickled her feet.

"What _are_ you?" he murmured as she gnawed his fingers.

He rolled over onto his belly and transformed. The cub stared at him for one breathless moment, then scrambled upright and dove between his forelegs to snuggle against his chest. Okay, that was a little unexpected. She was trembling, so he curled himself around her and nuzzled her back.

Homesickness blindsided him. She had that soft, new smell that babies of all species shared. It was something that spoke of home and family and comfort. His heart ached for his pack, safe and sound but too far away for a casual visit even as it broke for hers, living less than a day's ride away but unwilling to care for her. No wonder Prowl couldn't turn her away.

After a few deep breaths to steady himself, he turned back to analyzing her scent. She looked somewhat like a dog pup but was not in his taxon. Her scent was vaguely cat-like, though she didn't resemble any feline that Jazz knew of. He rubbed his nose through her lightly dappled fur as he thought.

With a grin, he transformed and scooped her up. "You're a hyena, aren't you?" he said triumphantly as if she could answer him. But she just wiggled in his arms, panting little puppy-laughs and chewing on his shirt buttons.

"Alright, alright. Major epiphanies aren't as important as breakfast, I get it."

Prowl had coffee brewing and was rummaging around in the icebox when Jazz walked in with Stormy, who had transformed when she found it was easier to hang on to him as a human.

"Mornin', Prowler."

"Good morning, Jazz. And Stormy," he added when she whined and reached for him. "If you'll stay with Jazz, I can finish your breakfast."

"Don't teach her to bargain, Prowl. You'll regret it when she's a teenager."

Stormy wasn't interested in bargaining anyway. She leaned towards Prowl and her cries grew sharper when he refused to take her.

"So I'm only second best, huh?" Jazz said as he turned her around and tried to get her to look at him instead. "That cuts me deep, baby girl."

He walked to the sink, hoping he could entice her with something interesting out the window and give Prowl time to finish frying the bacon and scrambling the eggs. (At first he'd thought it odd that his friend ate eggs. "I am not a chicken, Jazz," he had been told. "It's no stranger than you eating lamb.") He pointed to some natural birds swirling in an amorphous flock and warned her that they were not good to eat.

"Don't get me wrong," he said. "You could survive on 'em, but Prowl's cooking is worth waiting for, I promise."

Stormy remained unimpressed. She wanted food and she wanted Prowl and she refused to be distracted.

"Coffee's in the pot," Prowl said, probably sensing the oncoming tantrum and knowing that Jazz would need anything he could to give him the advantage. "I'm almost done," he added in a lower tone, obviously directed at Stormy, "but I need both hands to do it."

Jazz snagged a cup and poured one-handed while he hummed at a squirming toddler who was growing antsier by the second. He managed to pick it up and got a sip without spilling any because he had skills.

"Are you sure you're not an angel?" he asked with a blissed-out grin. Jazz made coffee as a vehicle for introducing caffeine into his body. Prowl made coffee because he liked coffee, dammit, and it showed.

The definitely-not-an-angel rolled his eyes. "Just when I think you've run out of bird jokes . . ."

"I pull another out of the air!"

Prowl calmly arched a brow. "You might want to try pulling something else," he said to Jazz. "Before things get a little hairy."

"Ouch. I thought bad puns were beneath your dignity."

"You bring out the worst in me," Prowl said drily.

Stormy decided she'd had enough and let out a howl. Her eyes leaked tears down her scrunched-up face. Paradoxically, she tightened her hold on Jazz as she screamed and sobbed.

Prowl calmly finished cooking despite the cacophony while Jazz paced the length of the kitchen humming and stroking and rocking. By the time he'd finished and Jazz handed her over to begin setting the table, she was too worked up to notice or care that she was back in the arms of her favorite person in the world. In the end, a bit of bacon shoved under her nose caught her attention more effectively than anything else attempted thus far. She turned off the waterworks and chomped on the meat while Prowl cleaned her face with a fondly exasperated smile. She sat in his lap and stole bites from his plate for the rest of the meal.

After breakfast, Jazz and Stormhunter voted for a nap. Or, rather, Jazz said that he was going to catch up on lost sleep since he didn't have to make his report and Stormy just curled up where she was sitting and started snoring. They eventually made it to the living room. Jazz curled up in the armchair again and Prowl stretched out on the couch with the baby's boneless form draped over him. He had pulled a paperback out of somewhere or the other when Jazz drifted off.

He awoke a short time later, cursing the crick in his neck and his apparent inability to get some rest. He looked up to find both Stormy and Prowl glaring at the door. Someone knocked again and Prowl unfolded himself with a sigh. He dumped Stormy beside Jazz as he walked by. She tucked herself in the curve of his body and clenched her fingers in his shirt without taking her eyes off Prowl. He glanced back at her before he pulled open the door.

An unfamiliar female greeted him in the clicking, hissing language of avians. Jazz understood little of it, but he recognized her formal greeting and Prowl's stiff reply. With the pleasantries out of the way, she launched into a long string of chirps and warbles.

Stormy turned away from them and tucked her head under his chin. Jazz was willing to bet he knew who the woman was, and his guess was confirmed when Prowl spoke pointedly in the common language.

"It's out of my hands, Stream," he said.

That didn't seem to be the response she was going for, because her next words were sharp hisses. Her mottled brown crest flared as she advanced on Prowl. Although she was slightly taller than her cousin, she was nowhere near as impressive, in Jazz's opinion. He had seen Prowl in a temper and he knew enough about avians to guess that Stream was more fluff and bluster than talons. Prowl seemed to be of the same opinion, because he didn't move from his place at the door.

"I have nothing to discuss with you. Matriarch has made her decision."

"She _decided_ to give my niece over to a stranger," Slipstream said, switching abruptly to common. "Stormhunter is all that I have left of my sister and she took that away!"

"If you wanted her, perhaps you should have taken better care of her."

"It doesn't matter! She's mine, Prowl."

"By the voice of the clan, she is _mine_, Slipstream. If you disagree, you are welcome to discuss the matter with Matriarch."

Slipstream made a furious move at Prowl but stopped when Stormy began to cry. Her orange eyes widened comically when she noticed Jazz holding the cub. He met her gaze until she turned back to Prowl and started hissing again, this time with accompanying gestures. Once, she tried to push past him into the apartment but he refused to budge. His responses were terse, and Jazz could see his crest beginning to twitch.

After that he stopped paying attention because Stormy was throwing her second fit of the morning, although this time he couldn't really blame her. If he had had any doubts about Slipstream's true nature, this possessive display convinced him. He concentrated on singing to Stormy and ignoring her aunt until he heard the door slam and looked up.

Prowl stalked back to the couch, looking murderous.

Well, that wasn't exactly true. To the untrained eye, he looked disappointed and vaguely annoyed. In actuality, he was calm fury incarnate.

"I can't give her back."

Jazz grimaced sympathetically. "I didn't understand most of that conversation, but I think I got the gist." He held out the sobbing toddler.

Prowl held her against his chest until she calmed, then lifted her so he could see her face. "You are a person, not a possession," he said solemnly.

She hiccupped, sniffled, and patted his face. Prowl smiled.

ooo

"I believe she is finally asleep," Prowl said so softly that Jazz had to press the phone tighter against his ear to hear him. "We are both going to bed. You may let yourself in."

"You sure? I can sleep perfectly fine by myself, you know."

"But you don't like it."

"No," he sighed. "I don't like it."

"Especially after a two-week assignment. I know how you get."

"Workin' hard at convincin' me there, are ya?"

There was a moment of silence at the other end, then, "I worry for you, Jazz."

A tired smile crept onto his face at that small admission. "I know. And I appreciate it, but I don't want to be a burden."

"You are not a burden. Occasionally a nuisance, but never a burden."

"Alright, I'll be over in a few."

"We'll see you then." Prowl sounded smug.

He made sure he was clean and calm before he left his apartment. He'd spent the last couple of weeks immersed in the filth of society and he'd be hanged before he let even a hint of that darkness near Stormy. The past few months had only served to strengthen the protectiveness he felt towards that cub.

It was mostly Prowl's fault. He and Jazz shared one of those fire-forged friendships that meant that they could rely on each other to an almost unhealthy degree. Six years as roommates at the Academy had a tendency to make people either blood brothers or bitter enemies. Fortunately, they had become the former. Despite their differences, both were highly social creatures and when separated from their kin they formed their own bonds. Prowl was cautious by nature, and since he refused to trust his flock with Stormy it was only fitting that he turned to Jazz.

Jazz, for his part, was helpless to resist a baby of any species since his friend so rarely asked for help . . . well, what could he do? He was committed the second he showed up at Prowl's door at some unholy hour of the morning and realized that his friend was in over his head.

He found himself back at that fateful door. This time he didn't even bother to transform, just let his charm unlock the door and padded in. There were subtle changes throughout the living room. The warm scent of baby permeated everything. Toys were scattered on the floor (Jazz had to smirk at that; Prowl was usually so fastidious). The usual clutter was back on the coffee table, but he was willing to bet that they were books on parenting and child development rather than Prowl's previous fare. It was also dark and deserted.

He transformed when he reached Prowl's bedroom door and waited for his human eyes to adjust to the darkness. The mattress was back in its usual place in the corner, though the bed frame had been dismantled and propped against the wall. Prowl was doing his Midgard Serpent impression again. This time he had his arm flung over Stormy's nest, covering her in a blanket of feathers. He slitted an eye open when Jazz approached, then shut it again with a groan.

A tiny pair of hands appeared and pulled Prowl's arm aside to reveal a grinning face. She giggled at Jazz and hid under the feathers again.

"Hate to break it to ya, but I think she's nocturnal," Jazz chuckled.

Prowl made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whine.

Stormy popped out again. Jazz made a face and she shrieked with laughter. He scooped her out of her nest and flopped on his back, hefting her in the air while she flailed her arms to "fly" and laughed.

Prowl transformed and stole one of Stormy's pillows. "I think she missed you, too," he murmured.

"Prowler won't play with you after nightfall, huh, babe?" Jazz said to Stormy. "Poor pup."

"If you are going to play, go elsewhere," Prowl grumbled. "Some of us need to sleep."

"So, if we don't play, can we stay?"

Prowl pinned him under one sharp blue eye. "Yes, Jazz, you may stay."

"Ya hear that, pup? We gotta go to sleep or he's gonna kick us out."

He settled her on his chest and she looked between the two adults with her little forehead wrinkled as she tried to keep up with the conversation.

"You aren't injured, are you?"

"Naw, I'm fine. Just tired."

"Are you on shift tomorrow?"

"Smokey's giving me the day to rest and write my report. Said I need to avoid any family emergencies like last time."

"Meaning that he knows you're my babysitter and thinks you're whipped."

"Pretty much. Do you want me to?"

"Hm?"

"Watch Stormy for you."

"I believe she has adjusted to spending time at the nursery facility. But I also think she missed you."

"That's a 'yes' then?"

". . . If you don't mind."

"Prowl. I kinda like the pup, in case you hadn't noticed."

"She's also a handful and you need rest."

"You can proofread my report for me before I turn it in, if that makes you feel better."

Prowl chuckled softly. "Alright."

While they talked Stormy curled up and burrowed under Jazz's chin. He stroked her back until he was sure she was asleep. Then he was faced with the dilemma of getting her back in the nest without waking her.

"I told you that you could stay," Prowl said.

Jazz almost objected, but he knew he'd only get a glare and a dry comment about how Prowl didn't say things unless he meant them. So he kept his mouth shut and stretched out. He drifted off with Stormy snoring softly on his chest and Prowl snoring softly by his side.

He awoke a few hours later, anxious and shivery over a half-remembered dream. Prowl plucked Stormy off of him and tucked her among the pillows. Then he transformed and curled around the nest, but not as tightly as before. His body arced in a loose semi-circle and his eyes fixed on Jazz. Before he could think about it too much, Jazz transformed and rolled over to complete the circle. He shoved his head between the raptor's neck and the pup's nest. The familiar scent of warm, dusty feathers calmed his jangling nerves.

Prowl snuffled his fur and made that soft chittering noise of contentment that Jazz so rarely heard. He wished he could purr or something, but coyotes didn't have a specific noise to soothe members of their pack the way avians chittered at their flockmates.

_Pack_, he thought as he nuzzled closer to Prowl. _Flock_.

_Family_.

He didn't say it out loud, but he was pretty sure that Prowl understood.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** In case I was less than obvious: Prowl's beast form is an Utahraptor, though his coloration (and this whole fic, really) is based on _Anchiornis huxleyi_. Jazz is a melanistic coyote. Stormhunter is a spotted hyena. Links to images and descriptions are in my profile.


	2. Nomenclature

**Disclaimer:** _Transformers_ is the property of Hasbro et al.

**Title:** Blood Ties – Nomenclature

**Rating:** K+

**Word Count:** ~7,100

**Warnings: ** Alternate Universe; Transformers as organic animal shapeshifters; kid!fic (no mpreg) with said kid being an OC

**Timeframe/Setting:** G1 pre-war AU. So very, very AU. Set in a world of human/animal shapeshifters where magic and technology live side by side.

**Summary:** Prowl's problem gets a little more dangerous and his relationship with Jazz gets a little more interesting.

**A/N:** After I'd finished writing it, I realized that this pretty much plays out like a _Law & Order_ episode. Also, there are various unsubtle shout-outs and references, so everyone reading should be able to catch at least one of them and achieve a smug sense of superiority.

* * *

><p>"Papa! Papa Prow'! Up!"<p>

"You know, there was a time when I feared you would never speak."

"Up! Up, plee!"

Prowl crouched down eye-to-eye with Stormhunter. "Stormy, say 'Uncle Prowl' for me."

"Unc' Prow'."

"Close enough."

He settled her on his hip and returned to scrubbing dishes. Over the past half a year, he had learned to do a surprising number of chores one-handed.

Stormy happily curled her fingers and toes in his clothing, as usual. She reached out to pop a few escaping bubbles and giggled.

"You have a father, Stormhunter," said Prowl. "I will love you and care for you as long as I am able, but I don't deserve that name. It is disrespectful to your real papa."

She looked up, troubled by his solemn tone. Then she patted his cheek with soapy fingers.

"I appreciate your concern."

"Love ya," she said.

And there went all his resolve to correct her – for now. "I love you, too."

When he had finished the dishes and set her down again, she occupied herself with a stack of blocks in the living room while he finished getting ready for the day. He could hear her babbling in the other room as he put on his uniform. It eased his mind a little. In spite of his worries, Stormy had turned into a regular chatterbox.

Her vocabulary was expanding daily, both in the common and traditional avian. She was also an uncanny mimic. Some of her words and phrases were spoken with a slight drawl that Prowl was willing to bet was her father's. Others had Jazz's Polyhexian accent or Prowl's own careful diction. She could laugh like Jazz, too – a talent that never failed to amuse the coyote. Sometimes they would set each other off while playing and it would sound as though Jazz had been doubled.

It wouldn't have been unusual for him to be there, but Jazz was already on shift. Even though Prowl was perfectly capable of getting himself and Stormhunter up and fed and dressed in the mornings he would never refuse an extra set of eyes. There were times when Stormy was too fearless for her own good.

He headed back to the living room and found Stormy cooing at one of her babydolls in a falsetto that made his heart twist a bit. It was a near perfect imitation of Tempest's voice.

"Are you ready, baby girl?"

"Where?"

"I am going to work and you are going to the nursery."

"See Jazz?"

"_Mister_ Jazz," Prowl sighed. "You'll probably see him. He has to work today."

In Prowl and Stormhunter's Epic Battle of the Names, relatives were referred to as such and everyone else was a mister or miss. Well, that's what Prowl strived for. Jazz didn't care for formality and objected to the "mister" bit in front of his name. At least until Prowl asked if he'd prefer "miss" instead.

Naming himself "Uncle Prowl" had been Jazz's suggestion, since Prowl was uncomfortable having her call him "father" when she already had a father. ("'Second-cousin-once-removed-on-my-mother's-side Prowl' is a bit of a mouthful, ya know," Jazz had smirked just before he was cuffed on the head.)

Stormy took a simpler approach – Prowl was "Papa" of "Papa Prowl" in spite of all his efforts to the contrary and anyone else might be "mister" or "aunt" or any arbitrary mix depending on her whim. Jazz just seemed to confuse her. She dropped the honorific so much that Prowl suspected Jazz was secretly encouraging her to do so. When she wasn't being rudely informal, she alternated between calling him "mister" and "uncle." Prowl secretly hoped she'd start using feminine honorifics, if only because it would encourage Jazz to correct her.

But in spite of that battle, Stormhunter was a remarkably well-behaved toddler. When he called her, she headed for him but then turned back to grab her doll and supervised while he packed it in her bag. Once sure her toy was safe, she curled against his chest and chattered brightly about whatever struck her fancy as they headed out the door.

ooo

Talking with Stormy after breakfast quickly became the highlight of his day. Second Tactician Prowl of Praxus' 42nd precinct had too many projects to plan, too many people to talk to, too much paperwork to wade through, and not enough time to do any of it. Whether his foundling called him "papa" or "uncle" was the least of his problems.

But Stormy's presence had had at least one positive effect on his life, at least according to those who accused him of being a workaholic – when Prowl's shift was over, he finished up the report he was almost ready to submit and then left his desk. The path from his office to the nursery was through a maze of twisting corridors that united a compound of municipal buildings. He nodded politely to the people he encountered on his way even though his mind was already on collecting Stormy and reaching the sanctuary of their home.

He reached the nursery and leaned over the half-door to scan the cluttered, colorful room for his cub. One of the workers took pity on him and approached with a smile.

"Has Jazz stolen her out from under my nose again?" Prowl asked. It wouldn't be unusual.

She laughed. "I wouldn't doubt it, but let me check."

Prowl absently calculated where Jazz and Stormy were likely to be while she consulted a data pad.

"Actually –" Prowl looked up sharply at her odd tone. She was frowning at the pad. "– it says she was checked out by . . . your cousin?"

ooo

Planning Room Number 1138 was a scene of quiet chaos.

Arcee, a no-nonsense pronghorn transformer who oversaw the childcare center, was looming over an unlucky nursery worker in the corner. Red Alert the hare was so wound up with nervous tension that he became a caricature of his species as he reviewed the security vids. Smokescreen shuffled through the data pads on the desk and muttered to himself.

Under normal circumstances, Prowl would be micromanaging – a soft warning to Arcee to back off, a calming hand on Red's shoulder, a stack of organized notes for Smokey. It was what had endeared him to his superiors and allowed for his quick rise through the rankings, but at the moment he couldn't be bothered to care. The nursery worker deserved berating for allowing an unauthorized adult to check Stormy out. Red Alert should be frantic; he had a lot of vid files to look over so he could track Stormy's progress out of the buildings. Smokescreen could deal with his notes while Prowl was busy looking over his own.

"S-sirs!" said Red Alert. When Prowl and Smokescreen had taken their places to look over his shoulders at the phalanx of screens, he continued. "She came in here –" He pointed to one of the screens. Prowl recognized Slipstream and couldn't help a quiet growl. Red flinched. "She – she approached the front desk –" Another screen. "And then went down to the nursery. Stormhunter was signed out at – at 16:23. They left through the south entrance." They tracked their progress through the videos until they were beyond the range of Red's cameras.

"H-here's the last know coordinates." Red Alert handed Smokey a data pad.

"Have you contacted the trackers?" Smokescreen asked.

"Yes, sir," said Prowl. "Twelve minutes ago."

"Then where –"

The opening door interrupted him. To Prowl's surprise, Jazz strode in at the heels of an unfamiliar man. Smokey smiled tightly at the stranger as he greeted him.

"Good to see you, Hound. We'll be needing your help."

Hound jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "My team is staging up and collecting the scent samples now, sir. I came to get our starting point." He had a quiet demeanor and a friendly face with sad brown eyes that reminded Prowl too much of Stormy. He took a sudden, irrational liking to the tracker.

Smokey beckoned Hound over and began going over the details of Red's data pad. Jazz stepped up and bumped his shoulder against Prowl's.

"I don't recall requesting an undercover agent," Prowl murmured as he turned back his notes.

"Yeah, and ya didn't tell _me_ about all this." He glared with one yellow-green eye. "Which we will talk about later."

"Jazz –"

"_Later_."

"_Jazz_, here." Prowl handed him the copy he'd made of his notes.

"Thanks," Jazz grunted.

He was thumbing through them when Hound and Smokescreen approached.

"Hound said you'd volunteered to help his team, Jazz," said Smokescreen.

"Yeah," Jazz said. "It's been two years since my last tracking training."

Smokescreen nodded and handed him another data pad. "We've already signed off on it. They're staging up at the south entrance."

Jazz nodded back and followed Hound to the door. Smokescreen cleared his throat meaningfully when Prowl moved to follow. He wheeled to fix his superior with a steely glare.

Smokescreen sighed. "Be safe."

Prowl nodded and turned on his heel.

As laidback as Hound seemed, he was a man on a mission. He led them through the halls at a brisk pace, taking shortcuts Prowl doubted most people knew about. The rest of his team met them in a narrow hallway behind the kitchens. He made the introductions without slowing.

"Prowl, Jazz, this is Creosote –" He nodded to a stocky woman with bristly gray hair. "– and Westerly." He indicated a man who, if his bright golden eyes and pale skin were any indication, was most likely an avian of some sort.

"Drumbolt and Mercury will rendezvous at the south entrance," said Creosote.

"Good," Hound nodded, then, "Right, I almost forgot . . ." He rummaged around the various pockets of his coat and pulled out two silvery charms. "They've got locators as well as communicators," he said as he handed one to Prowl and one to Jazz. "Follow my lead and stay close," he added when they reached the door.

They nodded in tandem. While Prowl technically outranked Hound, he was also out of his element and smart enough to know it.

Jazz clipped his charm to his ear and Prowl hung his on his collar as the others transformed. Creosote, in the form of a javelina, immediately put her nose to the ground. Westerly shot for the clouds in his osprey beast form and buffeted them all with the wind from his wings. Prowl was surprised to see that Hound's nickname was more literal than he had thought. The tracker's beast form was a long-eared dog with slate-blue speckles and spots. He politely sniffed both of them when they transformed.

"_Everyone hear me okay?"_ Hound asked.

The chorus of affirmations in Prowl's head was disconcerting. He rarely used communicator charms. Jazz seemed unfazed by it, meandering around with his nose to the ground like Hound and the sow.

"_We are here, as well,"_ said a pair of unfamiliar voices, making Prowl twitch.

A horse and rider pair rounded the corner. Both were in full uniform – black shirt and slacks for the man in human form and black-and-white caparisons for the stallion in natural form.

"_Good,"_ said Hound, wagging his tail_. "We wouldn't get very far without an escort this time of day, I reckon."_

"_I think I've got it,"_ said Creosote.

Jazz and Hound hurried over to sniff of the same spot.

"_Yeah,"_ said Jazz tightly. _"That's Stormy." _

They cast about until Hound picked up the trail. Or at least that's what Prowl assumed they were doing. As far as he could tell, the dog had picked a random direction and the others fell in place behind him. They trotted down the narrow side street, cut down an alley and headed for a busy thoroughfare. The white tip of Hound's tail was waving jauntily.

Prowl was certain that they'd lose the scent or get trampled (or both) but Drumbolt and Mercury edged in front of Hound. The general populace was in a hurry to get home, but the horse towered over those in beast form and his partner sat tall on his back. The crowd parted around them like water in a stream eddying around a rock.

Praxus was a city of marble and steel. Its skyscrapers and parks brought to mind its sister city of Vos. Just as Vos was a city of winged raptors, Praxus was founded by their groundbound kin. Especially here in the older districts of the city, the buildings were elegant and the streets were broad. Some of the newer cities might prefer automobiles, but in Praxus everyone traveled by foot or public train. It was inconvenient at times, but for the moment Prowl could only count his blessings and hope that Slipstream hadn't boarded a train.

He followed the trackers, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. His eyes were nearly as sharp as the osprey's but he felt rather useless on the ground in a pack of scent trackers. He fell back and let his natural black and white coloring serve as a sort of rearguard escort.

The trackers were oblivious to the throng around them and intent of the scent trail. It led them in a meandering path deeper into a part of town Prowl doubted Slipstream would visit often. Though certainly not the roughest side of town, his cousin would be much more comfortable in her nice, clean flat than on the dirty streets her path went. When it led them to the front of a grimy hostel, Prowl was sure there'd been a mistake.

Or he was until Slipstream bowled Jazz over. To the trackers' credit, she seemed more surprised to see them than they were to see her. She was in her beast form – not natural form, thankfully, otherwise Jazz would have had some rather serious injuries after being kicked and stepped on. As it was, he popped up again with a snarl and lunged for her throat. She kicked him over and wheeled to block Hound's leap. She was slowed by a satchel hanging against her chest, its weight obviously pulling her off balance, but she was still fast enough to slam her head into Hound's chest and knock him sprawling. The rider – either Drumbolt or Mercury, Prowl wasn't sure which was which – shouted something, but his mount squealed and twisted away when she swiped with her talons. The sow narrowly avoided Stream's deadly kick.

"_Stop!"_ Prowl shouted.

Jazz checked and Hound hesitated. Slipstream's head snapped up, crest flaring, and she glared around at them. She rocked from side to side with her back to the wall, scanning the little half-circle of trackers. The satchel squirmed. Jazz stretched out his neck to smell of it but he jerked away from her talons. She wrapped her arms around the satchel and spread her feathers as if to hide it. Creosote nosed Hound to his feet.

"Slipstream," said Drumbolt – Mercury – whatever his name was, "you are wanted by the city of Praxus for the abduction of a minor. Transform and surrender yourself."

Stream wasn't convinced. She hissed at him, then feinted at Hound and jumped over Creosote. As soon as her feet hit the ground, she was streaking away.

Prowl wheeled and shot after her. He might not have been much of a tracker, but he could run. He quickly outpaced the others and snapped at Stream's tail. There were muted voices in his head, Westerly talking to the others, but he wasn't addressed directly and so ignored them.

Slipstream was fast but she was also desperate. She zigzagged, cut corners and turned without any obvious plan. Prowl was aware of the others falling farther and farther behind, but he occupied himself with figuring out how to catch her without hurting Stormy. He considered using his much larger natural form to physically gab her, but transforming would only encourage her to do the same and he dared not risk the subsequent exhaustion. If she turned around and fought him, he would be at a disadvantage, too. She was larger and stronger than he, and obviously less concerned for Stormy's safety.

She drifted left towards the dark mouth of an alley but swerved away again when Hound lunged out of it barking and snarling like pitspawn. Prowl yanked out a mouthful of feathers from the end of her tail, but that little pain didn't slow her much. She pulled ahead of him again, aiming for another alley. A pitch black form detached itself from the shadows and drove her away again. Prowl trilled a thanks to Jazz as he passed. He could hear hoofbeats clattering down another side street. Sure enough, the horse charged directly into Slipstream's path. She ducked into an alley with Prowl nipping at her heels.

It was narrow, damp, and dark. Slimy moss was creeping up the moldering bricks. Prowl tried not to think about the oily puddles he ran through. He focused only on Slipstream and the dead-end of the alley littered with trash. He fell back a little when she slowed and turned, her tail painting a streak of red on a crumbling wall. She was panting and wild-eyed. Her head jerked back and forth, searching for an escape that wasn't there.

Prowl heard the _click-a-tick_ of claws on stone as the canines approached. He risked a glance back to see the horse and rider at the mouth of the alley, ready to block her if she somehow managed to get past all three of them. Westerly swept down onto the parapet of a building and half-folded his wings, poised to leap at any moment.

"Sure you don't want to surrender?" the rider called.

Slipstream ignored him. She straightened and held herself tall with a flared crest and glared at Prowl. It went against all of his instincts to ignore that dominant posture, to flare his own crest and crouch down with a threatening growl. He would not submit; he would challenge and fight if need be, taboo or not. She faltered in surprise and that was all it took.

Stream fell to her knees when Hound slammed into her hip and a spotty cub tumbled out of her satchel. She grabbed at Stormhunter, paying no heed to Hound half draped over her back and Jazz closing his jaws on her neck. Stormy twisted and sank her small, sharp teeth into Stream's outstretched hand. The raptor responded furiously, but Prowl was already moving. He caught her snout before she could touch the cub. She thrashed, kicking and shrieking, but he hung on grimly, even when he heard Jazz yelp in pain. He didn't even see Creosote, only felt her stiff fur brush against his leg, but Slipstream went very still when tusks parted the feathers on her throat. He gave her a rough shake for good measure before he let her go and turned away.

Stormy was huddled against the far wall. A trill bubbled up in Prowl's throat and she answered with a sobbing yowl. She scrambled towards him and flung herself in a heap at his feet. He crouched down and wrapped him arms around her, hiding her trembling form in the tent of his feathers. She huddled against his chest with her nose buried in his neck. Little puppy cries were muffled in his feathers. The thrumming of her heart was practically a vibration against his chest. He continued to croon and trill until she calmed.

When Prowl looked up again, Jazz was sitting with his back to him. His fur was streaked with mud and blood and bristling in a sharp ridge down his spine. The others had all vanished. Prowl spared a moment to be horrified that he'd tuned out his surroundings so thoroughly, but then Stormy leaned against him with a little sigh. Jazz cocked an ear backwards but didn't turn. Prowl transformed, gathered up his cub, and put a hand on his friend's withers.

"Thank you."

ooo

"The child is perfectly fine," Ratchet said. "Barely even bruised. Now _sit_."

Jazz obediently hefted himself onto the medical berth and allowed Ratchet to prod a cut on his upper arm where Slipstream had caught him with a sickle claw. Prowl scooped up Stormy and settled on the opposite berth.

"She hasn't transformed," he said.

Ratchet grunted. "She's fine," he said without looking up. He was focused on cleaning the wound, muttering about talons and dirty streets. "She's had a scare," he said after a moment. "She'll change back when she's calmed down."

She had that false calm again, like the first day he'd brought her home. She hadn't even fussed when Ratchet took her away from Prowl and examined her tender nose. When she was back in the shelter of Prowl's lap she curled up and stared at nothing with dull eyes. He stroked her back, where the dark fur was beginning to turn tawny and the spots were becoming more prominent, but that barely garnered a response. He kept petting her anyway.

"Ow, watch it!" yelped Jazz.

"Stitches require needles, you know," said Ratchet.

"Thought they also required local anesthetic."

"That depends upon the cooperation of the patient," said Ratchet. He continued pulling the catgut through the gash in spite of said patient's complaints. "The topical will take effect any minute now," he added.

Jazz flinched again. "And ya couldn't've, I dunno, waited a bit?"

"I'd like to go home some time before sunrise, and I'm sure you would as well."

The anesthetic had apparently started to work, because Jazz stopped twitching and was reduced to a few quiet grumbles. "Sadist," he muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Good."

When Jazz's injury was taken care of, Ratchet moved on to dabbing antiseptic and cooling gel on Prowl's scratches and scrapes. The medic treated him with his usual rough around the edges care and Prowl tolerated it with his usual aplomb until Ratchet went after a scratch with a little too much enthusiasm and Prowl flinched, jostling Stormy out of her apathetic stupor. She glared at Ratchet and growled. Jazz promptly collapsed in laughter and Prowl smiled. Even Ratchet chuckled.

"I'm not hurting your daddy, bitlet," he said.

"Uncle," Prowl corrected reflexively, earning himself an eye roll from Jazz and a mocking look from Ratchet.

"_Uncle_, huh?"

"Technically, I am her cousin," said Prowl. "Jazz felt that 'uncle' would be a less confusing term."

"Mm-hmm," said Ratchet. "Thought you'd adopted her."

"I did."

"But that doesn't make you her dad?"

"No."

"Don't bother," Jazz cut in. "I've tried. He's convinced he's right and everyone else is an irrational fool."

"Hm," was all Ratchet said and he went back to work under Stormy's watchful eye. He didn't say another word until he was cleaning up, but Prowl could practically feel him radiating disproval.

"Now, I'm going to give you a few tablets for the pain," he said to Jazz, "but they'll knock you out, so don't take them until you get back to wherever you're going."

"Yessir."

"And keep an eye on him, just in case," Ratchet said to Prowl.

"Yessir."

Jazz looked affronted. "I think I can take care of myself."

"And I think you'd do better to be taken care of for a few hours," said Ratchet. "You two practically live in each other's pockets anyway. May as well get some good out of it."

Jazz huffed but didn't complain. Prowl wasn't sure if he should feel smug or embarrassed.

Later, when Jazz was lulled by the rocking of the train car and dozing against his shoulder, he decided he could feel smug about it. They trusted each other implicitly. They had been best friends practically from the moment they met and Prowl really shouldn't be surprised that everyone knew it.

It was strange, he thought, idly stroking Stormy's back again. They were both from very family-oriented cultures, thrown together in the unfamiliar territory of the Academy. They had met in that awkward mostly-but-not-quite adult stage in their lives when they were both longing and fearing to strike out on their own. Despite their obvious differences – in some regards they were polar opposites and they would be the first to admit it – they had meshed remarkably well and thus their unlikely friendship was born.

It was tested almost as soon as it was formed. Prowl's parents and younger brother had died suddenly. Only chance and distance had spared him from the disease that claimed his immediate family and many others from within his clan. In his grief, he flung himself into his schoolwork and ignored the tentative relationships he'd begun to form with his peers.

Only Jazz had refused to give up on him. He had brought water and energon when Prowl was too sick to eat and too proud to go to a medic. He had tolerated fits of temper that would have shocked the other students, who thought Prowl to be emotionless. He had, though cajoling and threatening, gotten Prowl to at least rest even when he couldn't sleep. He had stood by him through the darkest time in Prowl's life without a word of complaint.

One night when both were exhausted but neither could sleep and were lying on their berths staring at the ceiling, Prowl had asked him why.

"'Cause you're my friend, Prowler," Jazz had said as if that were explanation enough. And maybe it was.

The train squealed to a halt, shaking Prowl from his musings. He jostled Jazz awake.

"Come on," he said, pulling him to his feet. "We're home."

ooo

Prowl awoke to singing and laughter.

"_Oh, the buffalo have got a beef about this season's grass; warthogs have been thwarted in attempts to save their gas_."

Prowl groaned and buried his head under the pillow. Only Jazz would teach the cub a song comprised entirely of bad puns. The lighting in his room seemed . . . _off_ somehow, lending an air of surrealism to the already baffling song. In hopes of deterring them, he got up and wandered into the living room.

"Hey, baby girl," said Prowl when Stormy pounced on him. "Are you feeling better?"

She grinned at him. "Soo-moose intra-pee-dus etverda," she said.

Prowl chuckled. "That's my brave girl."

"I thought the object was to _not_ encourage babytalk," said Jazz.

"It's our family motto."

"So, what, you're teaching her everything you know?"

"Pretty much," Prowl said smugly.

"You're a regular lingual protégé, aren't you?" he said and tickled Stormy's nose.

She transformed and chased after Prowl when he headed for the kitchen. Dogging his heels was one of her favorite games. One of these days, he was going to find a park or somewhere they could run and see what she thought about trying to catch him in his beast form.

Jazz levered himself to his feet. "Coffee?"

"Beggar."

"Hey, I fixed the food."

"Point. How is your arm?"

"Terrible, just terrible. Couldn't possibly make my own coffee."

"And yet you managed breakfast just fine."

"It was a necessary sacrifice. The bottomless pit was hungry."

"You could have woken me up."

"Morbid curiosity. I've never seen ya sleep late. Wondered how long you'd go at it. Besides, you needed it."

Prowl was shocked to realize that it was after ten in the morning. No wonder the light seemed strange.

"We're supposed to be –"

"Family emergency. I already talked to Smokescreen," Jazz cut him off smoothly.

"We can't keep using that excuse."

"It was his idea, actually. Besides, it's true, ain't it? And he said to tell you that Slipstream has been released into your matriarch's custody and the family meeting is tonight at nineteen-hundred."

Prowl nodded. "Can you watch Stormy tonight?"

Jazz frowned. "Don't you need to take her with you?"

Prowl shook his head firmly. "No. The farther she stays from Slipstream, the better. Besides, I would represent her anyway. She is too young to stand as the wronged."

"Alright," Jazz said, though he still seemed dubious. "If you're sure."

"I am. If Matriarch – if she changes her mind, then I want . . . I'll have the chance to –" The fear he hadn't even dared to acknowledge clawed up his throat and choked him.

"What's this, then?" said Jazz, stepping closer.

Prowl screwed his eyes shut and forced himself to speak. "If Matriarch changes her mind and gives Stormhunter to someone more suitable, I want the chance to tell her goodbye properly – not just hand her off to some stranger."

"Why in the Pit would she do that?" Jazz sounded genuinely confused.

"Slipstream neglected her, so she gave her to me. I neglected her, so . . ." he trailed off miserably.

He spooked and his eyes flew open when Jazz's hands clamped down on his shoulders. "Shut up," he said in a voice that had gone as deep and harsh as a growl. Prowl stared at him in surprise. "Don' even think that," Jazz continued. "You're one o' the best parents I ever met, an' that includes my own. Nobody could ever say that you don't care for that girl. An' if anybody ever tries I'll straighten 'em out. You're hers, heart and soul. And she's yours. Don't you _ever_ think otherwise." His grip was almost painfully tight.

"Alright," Prowl said softly.

Just like that, all the fight went out of Jazz. His hands went limp and he slumped forward, leaning his forehead against Prowl's. "You're such a perfectionist," he said quietly. "Sometimes I wish you wouldn't be so hard on yourself."

"But I –"

"– Did everything you possibly could to protect that cub. You were prepared in every way you could possibly be – I should know; I helped you. But sometimes bad things just happen."

Prowl knew for a fact that he had an intimidating stare – "nicest blue I ever saw, but about as expressive as a rock," someone had once told him – but he was of the opinion that Jazz's was at least as bad. They were exactly the same in either form, pale yellowish-green framed by the dark of his skin or fur and always full of secrets and mischief. He got the full effect of them from half a breath away and could only swallow and nod mutely.

Stormy reared up and scratched at his leg with a whine. He blinked and shook himself and was aware of Jazz doing the same while he knelt and picked her up. She transformed and clutched the collar of his shirt.

"We stay?" she said.

"Yes," he told her. "We're staying home today."

"Good. Happy," she murmured, curling against him. "Unc' Prowl and Misser Jazz _and_ Stormy stay?" She seemed to make a particular effort to get it all right, as if afraid he would abandon her if she said something wrong. The very thought made him hug her tighter.

Jazz rolled his eyes at the "Mister Jazz" part, but he smiled and ruffled Stormy's curls. "You're stuck with both of us for a while, miss priss," he said.

ooo

Matriarch was old, very old. So old that her crest had faded to cream and dull yellow instead of the usual mottled brown. Her hands and feet looked like brittle twigs protruding from the folds of her robe. She had outlived her sisters, her daughters, and her sisters' daughters. Her granddaughters were the oldest of her retinue, and some had their own great-great-granddaughters at their sides. Prowl's mother would have been among them, had she lived. Her cousin Slipstream had probably lost her chance to sit among them.

Slipstream was off to Prowl's right, kneeling on the carpet before the semicircle of elders. Her mate was beside her. Prowl was alone.

"My daughter Slipstream, my son Prowl, you are to be judged before the council as has been bid us by the justicekeepers of Praxus. Who is wronged?" said the mouthpiece of the council.

They knew full well who had been wronged but Prowl answered the ritualistic question. "Stormhunter, daughter of Tempest, is the wronged."

"And why is Stormhunter absent?"

"She is not of age and unfit to stand."

"Who are you, to speak for her?"

"I am Prowl, son of Windturn. Stormhunter is my ward. I stand in her place."

"Does any of the council object?"

Prowl held his breath. There was silence.

"Very well," said the mouthpiece. "Prowl, son of Windturn, shall stand as the wronged in place of his – in place of Stormhunter.

From there, the council turned its scrutiny to Slipstream. He was relieved to be out from under their collective gaze and just a little pleased to see Stream squirm. She couldn't deny that she had taken Stormy. She couldn't even really give a good reason for doing it. Prowl was seething inside but he was also curious. What had led her to believe that kidnapping an enforcer's cub _from the enforcers' headquarters_ would be a good idea?

"Tempest was my only sister," she said, her crest flicking up and down. "I loved her and I want to care for her fledgling. It is my right."

"You did care for her fledgling. Matriarch deemed you unfit and Stormhunter was given into Prowl's care per her orders. You forsook your right."

Slipstream's crest flared. "But I –"

"You had no right," Matriarch herself spoke in a thin, harsh voice. The room went very still. "You neglected the cub while she was in your care and in doing so you relinquished your right to keep her. That was _my_ decision and it was unquestioned."

"But _Prowl_ –"

"Prowl is none of your concern. If you wished to contest my decision, you should have spoken to me."

Stream's crest flattened and she stared at the carpet. "Yes, Matriarch. Please forgive me."

"Hm. Consider yourself fortunate that you are able to ask my forgiveness. Prowl, how would the justicekeepers punish her?"

"If this matter were outside the clan," he said slowly, "if she were judged as a stranger . . . . A kidnapper would be stripped of her charms and bound in the service of the city for several years."

Slipstream made a noise in her throat and her mate paled. Matriarch "hmm"ed thoughtfully.

"What of her own children, Prowl?" said Matriarch.

"Her children, Matriarch?"

"What of her rights to her children?"

"They would remain in the care of her mate – so long as he was not associated with her crime," Prowl said, frowning. "I believe they would be able to visit her."

Slipstream had gone even paler than her mate. "Matriarch – please – _please_, my fledglings –"

"Be silent," snapped Matriarch. "And be grateful that no one has contested your care of your own children." She was quiet for a long moment. "I have come to a decision," she finally said. "Mind that it is mine, daughter. If you wish to contest it, address me – not Prowl."

Slipstream nodded shakily.

"The city would bind you in service for years as penance. This seems fair to me and I would keep you under my eye. Therefore, you shall be bound as a servant in my household for eight turns of season. For that time, you are clanless and nameless. You shall eat and sleep among the hired servants, but they are your masters. You shall not look upon their faces nor shall you speak to them. You shall perform your tasks diligently and in silence. If you rebel in any way, I will know of it and you will be further punished. If you prove to be hardworking and humble, I shall allow you the privilege of visiting with your children. When your eight seasons are served, the council will meet again to decide if you have earned your freedom. Is the council just?"

With every word, Slipstream shuddered and curled her body tighter and tighter as if to shield herself from physical blows. When Matriarch finished speaking she was stock-still for a minute before bowing from the waist to touch her forehead to the floor. "The council is just, Matriarch," she said in a trembling voice.

Prowl copied her. "The council is just."

The mouthpiece took over once more. "Very well," she said. "My daughter Slipstream, you will surrender your collar now. My son Prowl," she was smiling ever-so-slightly, "you should return to your daughter."

He bowed again. "My regards to the council," he said.

He stood when Slipstream did and watched as she shakily unbuckled her collar and laid it in Matriarch's lap. When she knelt again to receive her orders, Prowl turned and left. The council was just. She would receive her punishment in full measure without any input from him.

He left the meeting room, wound his way through the dark corridors to the massive front doors of Matriarch's home. He passed under the lintel with '_Sumus intrepidus et vera'_ in elaborate glyphs surrounded by carved feathers and swords. He stood for a moment to breathe in the damp night air and then turned toward home.

ooo

Jazz was awake, of course. Prowl could see the sheen of his eyes as soon as he walked through the door.

"There's a perfectly good bed in the other room, you know," he murmured, sitting down beside the couch.

Jazz flapped a hand to shush him. "She finally fell asleep," he whispered. "I didn't wanna move."

Stormy was draped over Jazz like a panther over a log, sound asleep. But her face was blotchy and streaked with tears.

"She weren't real happy about you leavin' her," said Jazz softly.

He winced. "I should have known. I'm sorry, Jazz. Why didn't you call me if she was so much trouble?"

"'Cause you needed to get this done. Besides, I'm still her second-favorite," he said with a lop-sided grin. "I think."

"She adores you and you know it," Prowl murmured, leaning against the couch and half shutting his eyes. "Are you going home tonight?"

"Maybe. Whatever you want."

Prowl made a noncommittal noise in his throat. He would rather Jazz stayed, be he hesitated to ask it. He was also tempted to wake Stormy up, tell her he was back and reassure her that he would never truly leave her. For Jazz's sake, he stifled the urge.

He was spared the trouble when Stormy stirred and opened her eyes on her own.

"Papa?" she muttered thickly.

"I'm here, Stormy," he said, earning himself a look from Jazz.

She squirmed around to reach for him but he rubbed her back without picking her up, hoping she'd go back to sleep. She said something unintelligible and her eyes fell closed again. Within moments she was asleep again.

"I was thinking about something on the way home," Prowl said slowly. In truth, he had been thinking about a lot of things for a while now.

"Oh, dear." Jazz slid off the couch to sit beside Prowl on the floor and transferred Stormy's limp form to his lap.

"The council called her my daughter." He decided he may as well start with that one.

"Okay?"

"_Explicitly_. It wasn't 'daughter of the clan' or 'symbolically my daughter' but literally, 'flesh and blood offspring.'" Prowl could feel his feathers ruffling.

". . . okay?" Jazz remained unimpressed.

"It's different in avian. There are nuances . . ."

"They haven't done that before?"

Prowl shook his head. "I was always 'guardian' before. Second cousin once removed on her mother's side," he said with a little smirk.

"So what changed their minds?"

"I do not know."

"Well," Jazz said brightly, still apparently unfazed by Prowl's inexplicable shift in status. "Guess that just goes to show that little miss was ahead of her time."

"I suppose so," Prowl said fondly.

"So does that mean that you're gonna let her win and call ya 'papa'? Not like you haven't earned it."

"Yes," Prowl said, stroking her back with fingers that only trembled a little. "I think I will."

"Thank Primus. I'm tired of you two bickering all the time. It makes for a very stressful home life."

"Be nice." Prowl reached up and flicked his ear. "Before I change my mind about having her call you 'uncle.'"

Jazz's look of pure shock was worth every hour of planning and reasoning and agonizing he had spent on the train ride home. "But I – but you – but we . . ."

Prowl bit his lip to keep from grinning like a fool and shrugged casually instead. "If I, being only barely related to her, can be her father, then you, being closer to me than any of my true relatives, can be her uncle."

"Is that how you see me, then? Like a brother to you?" There were a thousand questions in those two short ones.

"No," Prowl said quickly. Too quickly, for he saw the flicker of betrayal and sadness in Jazz's eyes before it was hidden. "You are different – more than a brother to me." Primus, where was his usual eloquence? He leaned forward and clasped his hand around Jazz's uninjured shoulder. "You are important to me, Jazz," he said, praying that Jazz, who knew him so well, could see the truth in his eyes. "You are – you are one of the most important people in my life." He stroked Stormy's back again. "I'm not sure if I could choose between the two of you," he admitted softly.

Jazz looked stricken. "I couldn't – I would never ask that."

"I know, I know," Prowl assured him. "And that's partly the reason why. Earlier, when I didn't tell you about Stream taking Stormy, it was because I didn't want you to feel . . . obligated somehow." Jazz opened his mouth to protest, but Prowl held up a hand. "I know it was stupid of me. I know you would do anything for her – for us – and never begrudge it. I know I can trust you with . . . with everything."

Jazz chuckled and pressed his forehead against Prowl's they way he had that morning. Prowl tried to categorize the emotions in his eyes, but they were shifting to fast – relief, pride, joy, fear, humility, contentment. "Of course we have to go about it backwards and sideways. Couldn't do things the right way around."

"I believe you would call that the boring route," said Prowl.

"True enough."

They sat quietly in the dark, leaning on each other and breathing the same air. Prowl felt more comfortable here in a small apartment with Stormy and Jazz than he ever had among his relatives in the opulence of Matriarch's home. These two people, who had begun their lives as strangers to each other and to him, were his true family.

"Stay with me?" he murmured.

"Always, Prowler. Always."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Jazz's punny song is "The Morning Report" from _The Lion King_.

Beast forms are as follows: Arcee is a pronghorn; Red Alert is a black-tailed jackrabbit; Smokescreen is an Utahraptor (though not related to Prowl). Hound is a bluetick coonhound; Creosote is a javelina (and named for the creosote bush); Westerly is an osprey; Drumbolt and Mercury are both primitive-type horses similar to a Przewalski's horse. Ratchet is a Kodiak bear. Links are on my profile.


	3. Territoriality

**Disclaimer:** _Transformers_ is the property of Hasbro et al.

**Title:** Blood Ties – Territoriality

**Rating:** T for the intro and the usual K+ for the rest

**Word Count:** ~4,000

**Warnings: ** Alternate Universe; Transformers as organic animal shapeshifters; kid!fic (no mpreg) with said kid being an OC; brief gore/violence; slashy subtext

**Timeframe/Setting:** G1 pre-war AU. So very, very AU. Set in a world of human/animal shapeshifters where magic and technology live side by side.

**Summary:** Prowl's been thinking and Jazz is sulking.

**A/N:** I'm kinda 'meh' about this chapter. It's fluff. I usually like fluff. Once you get past the first section, it's _all_ fluff with a little bit of character development and worldbuilding. Without a major conflict if feels sort of incomplete to me. But it is fluffy.

* * *

><p>Jazz hated the gladiatorial rings. He hated the stench – the sweaty crowd pressed around him and the bloody, filthy pit below him. He hated the spectators who shouted encouragement as transformers tore each other to pieces. He hated the bookies and the big bosses who earned their living by forcing others to kill. He hated the rings themselves, how they <em>just wouldn't die<em> and how it seemed two more appeared as soon as one was shut down. He hated the shifty, greedy persona he adopted to make himself fit it.

A shift in the cheering drew his attention back to the pit. It was the last fight of the night, the winners' showdown. A grizzled 'possum was facing off against a young hyena. Had they been in natural forms it wouldn't have been mush of a fight but in beast form the 'possum was at least as big at the hyena, maybe even a bit larger. He had been using his size and mouthful of razor sharp teeth to his advantage amid shouts of "Grinner! Sic 'im, Grinner!" but the tables had turned. The hyena had ducked down and clamped his jaws on the 'possum's belly. He held on while his ears were torn into bloody ribbons and the crowd roared its approval. The 'possum twisted away and stumbled back but the hyena pressed his advantage. He tore at the same spot again and again, until the 'possum was reduced to kicking feebly at his own guts. The catchers didn't interfere. Only one winner would walk away from the last fight. When the 'possum was finally still and the spectators were cheering or booing as the hyena was led away on trembling legs, Jazz shoved his way to the window to collect his winnings and tamped down the urge to vomit.

The pits were well named. They held noting but torment and damnation.

ooo

When he finally got home, Jazz slept for most of a day. Late afternoon sun was sneaking through the curtains as he ate his breakfast and checked the messages on his phone. The first one had been sent five days ago and was from Stormy, who had apparently stolen Prowl's phone. He snickered through that one and the next, which was of Prowl apologizing. The next two were from two of his brothers. He'd talk to them when he was in a better mood. The last was from Prowl and had only been sent a few hours earlier.

"_If you need to detox when you get up, Stormy and I will be at the park for most of the afternoon. You are welcome to join us,"_ he said.

Primus bless him. Weekend afternoons at a little park down the street was father-daughter time. Jazz might spend half his time with them, love Prowl in a way that wasn't strictly platonic, teach Stormy every child-appropriate song he knew, and generally treat them like they were his own pack, but he didn't intrude on park time. It was something between Prowl and Stormy; Jazz was happy to let them have it.

But missions in the rings made him lose all faith in society. Being around scum and forcing himself to pretend to be one put him in a foul mood for days. Pretty much the only thing that could pull him out of it was Stormy's carefree cheerfulness and Prowl's unquestioning support.

He mulled it over while he finished eating. He didn't want to intrude if he wasn't wanted. But he knew that Prowl never said anything he didn't mean.

ooo

The park was an acre of grass bordered by small trees in a public lot amongst the apartment buildings on Prowl's street. It had slides and whirligigs and sandboxes at one end with benches in the shade. The rest was a mowed field where the older kids – and some adults, too – liked to play ball or tag. It was surprisingly empty for a warm afternoon when Jazz got there. There were some teenagers playing ball in the field and a handful of younger kids in the sandbox with a man and a woman looking over them. Jazz recognized Prowl's crest from behind and sauntered over.

"Hey, Prowler," he said, sliding onto the bench beside him and feeling only a little guilty when Prowl jumped.

"Good evening, Jazz," said Prowl, somehow managing to sound both pleased and scolding at the same time.

The woman peered at him skeptically.

"Phantom, this is Jazz. Jazz, this is my cousin Phantom," Prowl added.

She greeted him with a small smile. "It's good to meet you, Jazz," she said. "Prowl and Stormhunter have nothing but praise for you."

"Nice to meet ya, too," he replied with an easy grin. He had heard that name before and he was pretty sure Prowl had mentioned her in a positive light.

He was spared fumbling for polite small talk when she turned back to the children. Jazz settled leaning against Prowl's shoulder and followed her gaze.

Stormy was happily digging a hole with a slightly older boy. He had yellow eyes and a scruffy head of hair that would probably be replaced with a crest when he was older. A raptor chick still in grey nestling down was perched on the edge of the box chirring at them.

"Well, the boys and I should get going if we want to be home before dark," Phantom said after a few minutes of quiet. "We'll see you later. Streetwise! Bluestreak!" she called.

Streetwise and Bluestreak weren't interested. They gave her piteous looks when Phantom went to the box to gather up her reluctant children. She took the boy by the hand and picked up the youngster, who sat in the crook of her elbow and cooed.

Jazz propped his chin on Prowl's shoulder. "Did I scare her off?" he asked softly.

"Not directly," said Prowl in kind. "She is not . . . entirely comfortable with my sexuality. She is willing to tolerate it, if only for Stormy's sake." '_Which is more than can be said for nearly everyone else in the family'_ was unspoken but well understood.

"I'm sorry," Jazz muttered.

Prowl shrugged the shoulder Jazz wasn't leaning on.

Phantom passed them on the way to the gate holding one child and leading the other, who had turned back to wave at Stormy.

"See you next week?" she said with a little smile that might have been apologetic.

Prowl nodded. "Stormy and I will be here."

"It was nice to meet you, Jazz," she said, and the nestling chirped at him brightly.

"Y'all, too," he said and added a smile for the nestling, who immediately turned bashful and hid his face.

Jazz leaned a little closer to Prowl when they had gone.

Stormy looked disappointed to lose her playmates until –

"Uncle Jazz!" she crowed.

He caught her before she ran into his knee and let her wrap her arms around his neck.

"Missed you," she mumbled into his shirt.

"I missed you, too, Stormy."

"We goin' home now?" she said.

"We can stay a bit longer," said Prowl.

"But Street an' Blue go."

"They are headed home, yes. But we don't have as far to go."

"'Kay," she said. "You play with me, Papa?" she asked and slithered out of Jazz's lap to the ground.

Prowl shot her a look that Jazz could only describe as coy. "I suppose," he drawled.

She transformed and spun around in a circle, quivering all over with delight.

Prowl let his head fall against the backrest. "One," he said to the cloud-streaked sky.

She whooped impatiently and stomped her front feet.

"Two," said Prowl. "I know you're still there," he added without looking at her.

She huffed and backed up a few steps. Jazz settled in to watch the show.

"Three. You'd better run." Prowl was smirking openly. "Four," he said slowly.

She backed up a little more and fidgeted.

Prowl was quiet for a long moment, then, "Five!" he shot off the bench and transformed before he hit the ground.

Stormy squealed in mock terror and bolted for the field as fast as her stubby legs would carry her. He could have caught her in half a heartbeat, of course, but Prowl jogged behind her at a fraction his usual pace. He nudged her with his snout and pretended to bite. She ran circles around him and tried to dodge his false bites. When they got bored of that, he gently pushed her over and retreated a few steps to let her chase him around the field. Getting knocked down seemed to be the signal to switch roles, because every now and then Prowl would just flop down and let her crawl all over him before she ran away again and he got up to chase her. Jazz grinned while he watched them and wondered if he dared take a few image captures when Prowl wasn't looking.

Stormy scampered away from Prowl and reared up to paw at Jazz's knee. She was bright-eyed and panting, and he couldn't help but to smile back at her.

"Go on, then," he said, shooing her away. "He's gonna catch you."

But Prowl was just standing a few yards away watching them.

Stormy pounced on his leg again, then skittered back to play-bow and wag her tail like a dog.

"Weirdo," Jazz muttered. "What? Ya wan' me to play, too?"

Stormy whooped. Prowl smirked. Even his blandest expression in beast form showed lots of teeth, but Jazz knew he was smirking. Somehow.

"Alright, alright." Jazz transformed and pounced.

Prowl swung in beside him and together they chased Stormy around the field. Then Jazz pushed Stormy down and they ran away from her for a while. She couldn't decide which one of them to chase and ended up zigzagging around trying to herd them together. When Prowl flopped, Jazz followed his lead. Stormy pounced on him and Jazz wrapped his forelegs around her and hugged her to his chest. He licked her ears until she transformed and giggled in his fur. Pleased that he was keeping her occupied, Prowl rolled over on his belly and began putting his feathers in order.

The teenagers left the park, talking and laughing amongst themselves. Jazz took a long, deep breath and let it out in a contented sigh. They were uncommonly polite for teens – or, Jazz figured, they simply weren't interested in a couple of adults and a little kid – and he couldn't really begrudge them for using a public park, but Jazz wasn't really in the mood to tolerate anyone's company besides his odd little adopted pack.

Jazz transformed into human form and leaned back against Prowl's flank. Stormy settled on his chest and filled him in on all the important things he'd missed over the past week. Part of her monologue slipped into avian and he had to interrupt her periodically to request that she switch to the common language. She didn't seem to understand why he wasn't following her, and Jazz felt Prowl chuckle when he got scolded for not paying attention.

"What new things did you learn this week, sugar?" he asked.

He successfully derailed her into a naming game that mostly involved Stormy getting tickles and Jazz getting kicks in the ribs. Prowl finished preening, transformed, and scooted a safe distance away. He folded his legs and watched them with a fond half-smile.

"Toes, toes, toes!" Stormy managed to shriek between giggles.

He backed off and let her catch her breath.

"Ear!" she said, batting his hand away. "Ehwl-bow . . . nose . . . knee," she added as he poked each in turn.

"Eyes," Jazz turned the tables on her.

She pointed to her own.

"Fingers."

She wiggled them in his face.

"Alright, smartypants, where's your spark?"

After a questioning glance at her papa, she patted her chest. "Inside. Can's see it," she said.

"Clever girl," said Jazz. "And what does it do?"

"It's . . . it's so I can change," she said, tugging on the transformation charm on her collar. The only other charm she had was a tracker keyed to the one on Prowl's collar. "You have one?"

"'Course. Everybody's got a spark."

"I knowed _that_." She rolled her eyes in a dramatic fashion that would be sure to drive Prowl completely up the wall once she hit puberty. She pointed at the charms on his collar.

"Transformation charm?" said Jazz.

She nodded and mouthed the long word. He sounded it out for her until she could parrot it back to him.

"I've got two, actually," he said and let her examine both of them.

"Why?"

"One is for beast form and one for natural form," he said.

She cocked her head like a puzzled bird.

"Now you get to explain advanced physics and alchemy to a three-year-old," said Prowl.

"Three an' a half!"

"Begging your pardon, three-and-a-_half_," said Prowl.

"Why two? Uncle Jazz?" she whined and poked his chest when he didn't respond.

"Hang on a sec, I'm ponderin'," he said. Prowl was right. It was a pretty complicated subject for a toddler. Nevertheless, it all boiled down to size. "Alright," he said after a bit. "Ya see that squirrel over there?"

She looked where he was pointing and nodded. The squirrels and birds in the park were half-tame from handouts and a grey squirrel was foraging in the grass not too far away, completely ignoring them.

"It's a natural animal, right?"

She sniffed the air and nodded again as she stuck her thumb in her mouth.

"Ya think a think a transformer as big as me could scrunch down as little as that?"

She giggled. "No," she said around her thumb.

"What about a squirrel transformer?"

She looked between him and the squirrel. "Big," she said thoughtfully.

"A big human form makes a big beast form, that's right," he said, feeling a little smug.

"So why two?" she said.

"I'm gettin' there. Beast form is however big the human form is," he said, tugging on one charm. "That's this one."

She examined it carefully.

"The other one," he proffered it, "is for natural form. It's however big the natural animal is."

"How does squish?" she said, wrinkling her nose.

He tapped her chest. "It uses spark energy," he said. "That's why people usually use beast form. It doesn't make you as tired because it uses less energy."

She digested that information for a bit. "And beast form bigger."

"Depends on the animal," he said. "A squirrel's beast form is bigger. Mine is, too. Prowl, of course, is backwards. His natural form is bigger."

She gave him a curious look and Prowl nodded. She examined his charms, too, comparing them to Jazz's.

"But I has one," she said slowly.

"Your natural form is same size as your beast form, so you don't have to worry about it," Jazz said. At her skeptical look, he grinned and ruffled her hair. "You're special, kiddo. Not many people are like that."

That mollified her. Before too long she was asking questions about his other charms and he explained them all as simply as he could – a communicator charm that linked him to other members of his team when he was in the field; a trait charm that allowed him to keep his coyote tail in human form; a subspace charm that stored his clothing and paraphernalia when he transformed.

"So I don't transform into a human in my birthday suit and traumatize everybody," he said. It gave her the giggles and Prowl made a soft noise in his throat. "_Almost_ everybody," he amended softly with a smirk.

Prowl pinched his flank. "Do not traumatize my child."

"She didn't hear me," Jazz hissed.

"Hear what?" Stormy sat up.

"Hear my plot to count your ribs!"

The bruises he collected from her flailing feet were well worth the exasperated smile he earned from Prowl.

They called a truce in the midst of the ticklefight to stop and watch the sunset. It was quite pretty – bright, hot orange and smoky purple that faded into midnight blue and blackness. Stormy named all the colors she recognized until she abruptly fell asleep.

"Are you ready to go home?" said Prowl. Jazz made a face and Prowl laughed softly. "Or go to _my_ home?" he amended.

"I could stand that," he said. He rearranged Stormy in his arms and let Prowl haul him to his feet.

It was only a short walk to Prowl's apartment and since Stormy was much easier to carry when one had opposable thumbs they didn't bother to transform. The gaslights cast a flickering orange glow over everything. Jazz never thought the city smelled great – too many people, not enough trees – but the cool wind in his face was much better than what he'd been putting up with over the last few days. Prowl walked beside him, close but not quite touching, all the way to the door.

They had to wake Stormhunter up to feed her, and for once she wasn't very enthusiastic about snitching food off of their plates. She was old enough to have her own chair and dishes but before the meal was over she was dozing in Prowl's lap. He stroked her messy curls while he talked to Jazz. His comments on office drama at the station were sharp and dry, but they had Jazz snickering even when Prowl showed only the faintest spark of humor in his eyes.

Stormy woke up enough to demand a story before bed. Prowl being Prowl, he didn't tell her just the usual avian stories like the Ballad of Isla Nublar and Frightful's Adventures in the Mountains. No, Prowl's bedtime stories were myths and folktales from all over the world – of Sham, the stallion born from the desert wind; of El-ahrairah, the trickster god of the rabbits; of the vagabonds Firekeeper, Blind Seer, and Elation and their adventures in strange lands; of the Great Lion and his defeat of the White Witch; of Kotick the seal, who lead his people to freedom; of Yeller and Kitty and countless other dogs who gave their all to protect their families. But once Stormy was settled under her blanket, Prowl had barely begun the tale of how Tha the first elephant created the jungle, before his cub was asleep again.

ooo

Jazz awoke in a panic. It was dark and he was trapped with memories of blood in his nose and screams in his ears. He held himself perfectly still with every muscle as tense as a coiled spring. After two deep breaths he recognized Prowl's house and relaxed. Prowl claimed that avians were not as keen on cuddling as mammals, but that was hard to believe when said avian was wrapped around him like a second skin. The soft huff of breath on his neck reassured Jazz more than anything else.

He stayed still and quiet and hoped he could fall asleep again. After nearly an hour had passed, he heard a snuffling whine from down the hall. Prowl grumbled without fully waking up.

"Want me to get her?" said Jazz.

"Spoiling her," Prowl muttered.

"Um, yeah."

Prowl sighed. "Yeah."

"Yer gonna have to let go o' me, then, Prowler."

"Mmph." Prowl slowly unwound himself.

Stormy was sitting up in the middle of her bed with a tousled head and wide eyes. Her bedroom had once been Prowl's study, but she had decided that she liked it best during the daytime and preferred sleeping in her papa's bed. She reached for Jazz as soon as she saw him and he didn't bother trying to deter her.

Jazz tucked himself back in his spot between Prowl and the wall. They had put the mattress back in its frame and Stormy had spent a few nights enthralled at the closer ceiling. But she was apparently used to it or too tired to care because as soon as Jazz was still, she was asleep. They nestled together – Prowl curled around Jazz curled around Stormy – and Jazz was asleep again in moments.

ooo

"Heya, Prowler."

"Afternoon," said Prowl absently.

"Y'know, some people actually eat on their lunch breaks," said Jazz.

"And some special operatives have mastered the fine art of subtle conversation."

"Ouch."

"And I ate already, mother hen," Prowl smirked and patted the spot beside him invitingly.

Jazz, still feigning insult ("_You're_ the mother hen"), hefted himself up onto the chest-high retaining wall that surrounded one of the flowerbeds in an out-of-the-way courtyard in the enforcers' headquarters. It was rarely frequented, and Prowl was fond of slipping off there when the weather was nice. At the moment, he was engrossed in a book with the remnants of his lunch forgotten beside him. Jazz settled on his other side with his own food. He ate it slowly, squinting in the sunshine and sniffing the occasional breeze that managed to reach them.

"So, what's the new book?" he asked after a while. "The usual obscure masterpiece?"

"Housing review."

"Come again?"

"It's the local housing review," said Prowl.

". . . Ah."

"I'm thinking of buying a house, so I need to study the local market."

Jazz had no intelligent response for this unexpected information. Prowl took to change about as well as fish took to trees.

"I've only been thinking about it for a little while," he added, still without looking up.

"Thought you liked your apartment," Jazz said slowly.

"I do. But I want Stormy to have a yard and . . . it's been a bit cramped lately."

Jazz winced. "So is this your super-subtle way of telling me to bugger off?"

"No," said Prowl. "This is my non-subtle way of telling you that I'm looking for somewhere all three of us will be comfortable and very, very non-subtlely asking you to officially move in."

Jazz thought about that for a while. Prowl calmly flipped a few pages.

"I want – I, I mean –"

"You don't have to answer me right now, you know," Prowl said, still resolutely not looking at him.

"It – it's not that. I'd love to live with you, and you know it."

Prowl glanced at him. "But?"

"But . . . you know what I do for a living, Prowl. The places I go, the people I deal with. I don't want to – I _can't_ bring that home to you and Stormy every night."

"Well, if odd hours and nightmares are all we have to worry about –"

"That's not it," Jazz cut him off. "It's – what if someone found out who I was – or just followed me home, Prowl?"

"Then he would have two sets of teeth to worry about instead of just one," Prowl said low in his throat.

"Exactly! I couldn't bear it if I put you and Stormy in danger!"

"You think that you are safer on your own, that I am a hindrance to you?" snapped Prowl. "You think that I don't worry for you when you're alone?"

"Of course not," said Jazz weakly. "But your cub –"

"– is safer with her family than she is with me alone," said Prowl.

Jazz couldn't find an argument for that. He stared at his hands clenched tightly in his lap. They were silent for a long while before Prowl spoke.

"I've been looking through the records," he said softly. "Nothing in you file suggests that you have ever been compromised on a mission. Of those who have, only one is still on the force and you have never worked with him. He and nearly three-quarters of the others who were compromised did so within their first four years of service. The remainder were in deep-cover, long-term missions that you are unlikely to be assigned," Prowl said softly.

Jazz stared at him with a mixture of surprise, amusement, and a sort of longing emotion that he didn't have a name for. Prowl's crest flicked while he continued to study the book in his lap.

"So what have you been looking at?" Jazz finally asked, leaning over to peer at the book.

The edges of Prowls lips curled up in the faintest of smiles.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I cannot claim credit for Prowl's bedtime stories, of course. That whole paragraph is basically a list of my favorite stories from childhood and today.

And I must sincerely apologize to the readers I inadvertently confused in previous chapters. I hope Jazz explained the different forms well enough for you. Here's the cliffnotes version:

**Human Form** – The default form. Transformers in this story are either alternate universe humans or suspiciously humanoid aliens. Most adults have a retained trait, usually distinctive to their animal form species, which serves as an identifying feature and an aid in communication while in human form (like Jazz's tail and Prowl's crest).

**Beast Form** – Animal form that is the same mass/size as the human form. For example, Jazz transforms into a rather large coyote and Prowl transforms into a very small raptor. It is the second most commonly used form after human form, and is usually reserved for travel, playing, or specialized tasks that require animal senses or features (such as Hound and his trackers in the previous chapter).

**Natural Form** – Animal form that is the same mass/size as the natural animal. Most Transformers do not use natural form often, as it requires more spark energy than beast form. Transforming into something like an elephant would render said transformer too exhausted to do much without resting and eating a great deal, so it isn't usually worth the bother. The exceptions are those like Stormy, whose natural form has the same mass as her human form, and those who have jobs that require them to be a certain size, such as the horse enforcer in chapter two.


	4. Seasonality

**Disclaimer:** _Transformers_ is the property of Hasbro et al.

**Title:** Blood Ties – Seasonality

**Rating:** K+

**Word Count:** ~5,700

**Warnings: ** Alternate Universe; Transformers as organic animal shapeshifters; kid!fic (no mpreg) with said kid being an OC; humane slaughter of a non-sapient animal; slash less subtexty

**Timeframe/Setting:** G1 pre-war AU. So very, very AU. Set in a world of human/animal shapeshifters where magic and technology live side by side.

**Summary:** Prowl's has a holiday and Jazz gets himself in trouble.

**A/N:** I apologize for taking so long to get this chapter to you. I greatly enjoyed working on it, so I took my time.

Jazz's brother Ricochet had a truck and Stormy was enthralled. The adults made the effort to keep her from bouncing around in the cab, but she had slept the last few hours of their afternoon-long train ride and was wide awake by the time they had thrown their bags in the bed and headed towards the farm. She stood in Prowl's lap to look out the window at the pastures and orchards rolling by, then climbed over to Jazz to chatter at Ricochet and see how he did the driving.

Ricochet was nearly as charming as Jazz, though his easy smile was more likely to turn mischievous. He had his coyote ears as his trait and was fond of tilting them this way and that to accent whatever it was he was saying. This further fascinated Stormy, and to Prowl's relief it had the benefit of keeping her still while she paid attention to him.

"Momma's gonna want to keep you, sweet girl," Ricochet warned. "All of us 'yotes are wild hoodlums."

"Hoo'lums?" she said, wrinkling her nose.

"Wild and crazy kids that make their momma lose her patience," he said with a wink.

"Speak for yourself, pup," said Jazz. "Just because _you_ always caused Momma and Daddy grief . . ."

"Ask your Uncle Jazz about soaping the train tracks sometime, Stormy-girl," said Ricochet.

Jazz groaned as Stormy turned curious brown eyes to him.

"Like I said, she's an angel," said Ricochet, flopping one reddish-blond ear down to give him a lop-sided look to make Stormy giggle.

Prowl decided that he could forgive a little cheesiness since Ricochet was complimenting his daughter. Besides, he was the closest of Jazz's brothers – only a little over a year younger, so they had been friends all their lives – and he was doing them a favor by driving them out to his parents'. Traffic around Springsday was chaos, even out in rural Polyhex. Prowl would much rather put up with two chatty coyotes teaching his girl bad habits than try to walk all the way to the farmhouse without getting trampled or run over.

When they pulled into the long, winding driveway "Uncle Ricky" let Stormy honk the horn to announce their arrival. The yard was full of kids of various ages, Jazz and Ricochet's younger siblings and nieces and nephews. The adults on the porch waved and a few more looked out the door to see what the commotion was about.

Stormy held on to Prowl's jeans while they unloaded and went inside. For a while, he had feared that the stress in her early life would make her timid, but she had turned out just the opposite. Stormy loved everybody. She reached for Foxfire, Jazz's father, as soon as she saw him and shrieked in delight when he swung her up into his arms.

"You must be the little hyena I've heard so much about," he said to her.

"Tell him your name, baby," Prowl said when it became apparent that she was too distracted by his beard to remember her manners.

"Sh-tormy," she said around her thumb, feigning shyness.

Solstice, the matriarch – Jazz told Prowl that coyotes didn't have matriarchs, though Prowl was of the private opinion that they did, only their matriarchs were more subtle about keeping their families in line – was busy preparing the feast for Springsday and chasing various and sundry descendants out of the kitchen. She was smiling in spite of her exasperation, and Prowl was sure the silver in her hair had more to do with her pelt than age or stress. Jazz managed to snitch a few things out of the icebox for their dinner and retreated to the front room with Prowl and Stormy. The cub only ate a little before she slipped away to run around with the kids outside.

Jazz had been appalled when Prowl mentioned that he wasn't planning to join his family for Springsday ceremonies and immediately insisted that he join his own pack for the day. "Momma never could turn anybody away," he had said. "Especially on a holiday." Prowl had been hesitant, but eventually agreed.

He had met most of Jazz's siblings at some point or another, though he had rarely seen all of them at once. After the sixth reintroduction, he was absently wishing for a data pad so he could take notes. He was also relieved to see that not everyone was strictly family by birth or marriage. There were several other friends, neighbors, and assorted strays. Jazz, of course, was delighted to see everyone, even newcomers he had never met. Prowl made polite conversation for as long as he was able, then slipped away to check on Stormy.

It was almost dark, and some of the older kids were delivering a lecture to the others on lightening bugs. The nights were still too cool for the bugs to be out yet, but that didn't stop them from hunting. As Prowl sat down on the edge of the porch and swung his feet over the rhododendrons, the kids scattered in search of the little glowing bugs. Stormy wasn't quite old enough to know exactly what was up, but she made a valiant effort anyway. She trailed after one of the older ones in her beast form, snuffling the damp grass and only occasionally getting distracted and pulling her playmate's tail.

"Whew, I think you've got the right idea."

Prowl cocked his head to look at the woman who sat down near him.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't remember your name."

"We're even, then," he said. "I'm Prowl, a friend of Jazz's."

Her yellow eyes sparked understanding. "Ah, so you're Prowl. I'm Argent, Claybank's mate. And I feel like I am going to have to make a chart so I can remember everybody."

"Flashcards," Prowl murmured.

"Ha, flashcards sounds good."

"But you can hide out here with me for a while," he added.

"We're not hiding. We're keeping an eye on the children."

"Right, of course," he said with a little smile.

"One of them's yours, isn't she? . . . Windy?"

"Stormy," he said and pointed. "The spotty one there."

Said spotty one was currently tussling with a pup nearly twice her size.

"I bet she's a handful," said Argent.

"You have no idea," Prowl said dryly.

Argent giggled suddenly. "I think you're the first person who hasn't said 'just wait 'til you have one of your own!'"

"You could always borrow her for a while . . ."

"Oh, no." She put up both hands defensively. "I'm alright, thanks. Besides, isn't that what you've got Jazz for?"

Prowl smirked. "Exactly."

Over the course of the evening, everyone else filtered out on to the porch as well. Prowl commandeered a cane-bottomed rocker and sat with Stormy wrapped in his jacket in his lap. Jazz folded up on the floor and leaned against his leg. The rest of the pack was scattered around in swings and rockers and on the floor with Jazz. The children had quieted down and Stormy would have been asleep, except that she didn't dare close her eyes and risk missing something interesting.

Argent was the newest addition to the family. She sat beside Claybank in a double rocker and endured the good-natured heckling from her new family. Her clever tongue gave as good as it got and before long several of the others had sided with her against their own siblings. Jazz took to her quickly and added his own cutting remarks on her behalf. Solstice put a stop to it before they could make Argent blush too badly.

"Let her be, children," she said. "She'll be convinced I didn't raise any of you right."

"Aw, she knows out bark is worse than our bite," said Jazz.

"That's right," Argent laughed. "Clay has been telling me mostly good things about his family for years."

"But you waited this long to bring her to meet me, did you?" said Solstice.

Claybank only looked a little abashed. "Forgive me for fearing you'd scare her off."

Argent elbowed his ribs. "I don't scare easily," she said haughtily and the others snickered.

"Well, if _Clay_ didn't send you runnin' –" Foxtrot started, but cut himself off to dodge a blow from his brother.

"Be nice," Argent chided. "He's a good guy." She leaned against her mate's shoulder to a chorus of 'aww's.

"Smart, too," said Solstice. "You can't go wrong with taking a mate who's already your friend," she added to the group at large.

Tango rolled his eyes. "Come on, Momma."

Foxtrot kicked him. "Just because you can't find anyone to put up with you doesn't mean she don't give good advice."

"Did anybody here ask for advice?" retorted Tango.

"It's usually the ones that don't ask that needs it th' most," said Ricochet.

"And you should respect your mother," Foxfire rumbled from the swing he shared with his mate. He hadn't contributed much to the earlier conversation, but when he spoke up the others quit their bickering.

One by one, the rest of the pack wandered inside and went to bed. By midnight, Prowl and Jazz were alone on the porch with the snoring Stormy. Jazz was content to stay on the floor rather than move to a chair. They enjoyed the companionable silence together. The darkness and quiet of the country was strange to Prowl, who had spent nearly all of his life in Praxus. He found it peaceful. Naturally, Jazz couldn't keep quiet for long.

"So, ya got everybody memorized by now?"

"Not yet," said Prowl.

"Everyone been nice, though?"

"Yes, they are all obviously your kin," said Prowl. "Though I have noticed something . . . interesting."

"And what's that?" said Jazz.

Prowl 'hmm'ed thoughtfully. "Whenever I introduce myself, I often get that 'ah, so _you're_ Prowl' look or comment."

Jazz flinched. It would have been near imperceptible had he not been leaning against Prowl. "Well, y'know, I might've mentioned you."

"Mm-hmm."

"Well, I talk to Momma and Momma talks to _everyone_, so . . . . And I can't exactly tell her about what I do half the time, and you're around a lot . . ."

"Mm-hmm," Prowl said again, smirking.

Jazz turned around to face him. He folded his arms over Prowl's knees and nosed of Stormy's sleeping form. "Okay, so your life is practically my own private soap opera. We don't exactly have your level of family drama."

Prowl rolled his eyes. "I'm so glad you find my troubles entertaining." He swatted at Jazz's head.

Jazz caught his hand. "It's not like that an' you know it," he said earnestly. "Just 'cause we gossip and tease ya don't mean we don't care about ya. Just the opposite, in fact."

"'We'?"

"Momma always asks about ya. Dad does, too, sometimes. Some of my brothers. All of my sisters . . ." His voice grew fainter with every word.

That gave Prowl pause. "So . . . your entire family asks about my wellbeing even though most of them have only seen me once or twice, if at all?"

Jazz blinked at him innocently. "Why not? You've been my best friend for, like . . . ever." He didn't seem to find Prowl's silence encouraging, because he rambled on after a moment. "Of course, more than half of 'em seem to think that we're courting and keep making snide comments and asking me why I never bring you around, so that might account for why everyone's so interested in ya, and I'm gonna strangle Equinox if she asks me when the bonding ceremony is one more time and –"

Prowl held up a hand and Jazz cut himself off. "They think we're courting?" he said carefully.

"Well, some of 'em," Jazz dithered.

Prowl stared.

"Okay, pretty much everybody. Except Tango – but he's, y'know, _Tango_, so . . ." Jazz trailed off, then said with a little more conviction, "Granted, I have begun to wonder, myself . . ."

Prowl filed that last comment away for later. "But – but they aren't _bothered_ by that?"

"You kiddin'? Momma _adores_ ya."

"Yes, but –"

"_Oh_." Prowl could hear the comprehension in Jazz's voice even if he couldn't see his face clearly. "You mean 'cause you're a guy?" Jazz chuckled a little. "That just means Clay and Woodburn get to tease me about finally makin' up my mind. And considerin' the kind of folks I brought home in grade school, they're really happy to have _you_."

"Oh," Prowl said softly.

Jazz squeezed his hand. "Like I said, we ain't exactly got your level of family drama."

"I see that." They were quiet for a while until Prowl spoke up again. "So, are we?"

"Are we what?" Jazz said warily.

"Courting."

Jazz sputtered incoherently for a bit before coming up with, "Maybe?"

"You'd think we'd know, one way or the other."

"Yeah, but this is _us_."

Prowl gave him an arch look that was probably lost in the darkness. "What exactly are you implying?"

"That we never have done anything the easy way," chuckled Jazz.

"Hmph. True enough."

"So . . . are we?" Jazz said after a while.

"I don't know," said Prowl somberly. "But I think – I think that I would like that."

"Yeah," Jazz said softly. "Yeah, me too."

ooo

Everyone was up before dawn on Springsday, though only Prowl and Solstice seemed particularly happy about it. He had braved entering the kitchen to help fix coffee, and he handed Jazz a steaming mug when the latter stepped out in the yard to join him.

"Primus bless you," Jazz said as he accepted the mug.

"Isn't that sort of the point?"

Jazz gave him a bleary-eyed glare over the rim of the mug. "It's too early for your pitiful attempts at humor."

"It's not my fault you stayed up too late murmuring sweet nothings in my ear."

"That wasn't sweet nothings," Jazz muttered. "That was desperate pleas for you to move your sorry carcass before I fell off on my –"

"Language," Prowl said mildly and Jazz trailed off into sullen growls.

The family home was a somewhat rambling structure that had been added on to many times over the years. It had grown so much that the main house was now connected to the kitchen, which had once been a separate building, by a long, narrow hallway. It sported nearly a dozen bedrooms between the front sitting room and the big dining room just off the kitchen. Still, it hadn't been built to handle the sheer number of people currently under its roof all at once; everyone had to double up to make sure there were enough beds to go around. Prowl and Jazz were used to sharing, but they had been relegated to an old rope bed so narrow they both had to sleep on their sides. Stormy had crammed herself between them in beast form, sleeping on her back with her feet in the air like a dead bug. Both of them had curled protectively around her. There might have been a little cuddling involved.

"Granted, ya had a little help in that regard," Jazz added.

The lump in the front of Prowl's jacket growled when Jazz poked it.

"Careful," said Prowl. "She's grumpy this morning."

"It ain't actually mornin' if the sun ain't up yet."

A noise that suspiciously resembled a giggle emanated from the general direction of Prowl's collarbone. Stormy had been well on her way to going back to sleep inside her papa's jacket – how she could do so while clinging to his torso like a burr, Prowl hadn't the faintest idea – and she did not take kindly to being woken up _again_. But if anyone could cheer her up about it, it would be her other favorite person in the whole wide world, Jazz.

The rest of the pack came outside in twos and threes. They were clean and dressed but sleepy-eyed, wrapped in coats and blankets against the chill that lingered in defiance of the first day of spring. Solstice stood on the steps and did a headcount before taking her place beside her mate under a sprawling old hickory tree in the side yard. Everyone else gathered around them.

Foxtrot and Equinox, the eldest son and daughter, respectively, came around the corner of the house leading two half-grown natural pigs by their nose rings. The animals' pale pink hides had been painted with swirling green designs that looked like twining vines. They circled the crowd of transformers docilely and stood behind Foxfire and Solstice. Prowl coaxed Stormy out of his jacket to look at them.

The sky was turning a dusky pink behind above the trees in the distance. A few birds, woken up by the commotion, began to sing. Stormy whistled back at them until Prowl shushed her. Jazz leaned against his shoulder and held his coffee in both hands.

Prowl was expecting a long story or prayer (or both), as was typical with his own family. But Solstice just smiled around at her assembled pack and said, "We welcome the dawning Spring with thanksgiving and hope."

Solstice turned and Prowl was sure that she was smiling fondly at the pigs.

"Sleep, my child," she said softly to the young boar and pressed a silver charm in her palm against its forehead. The animal swayed, its knees buckled, and it slumped to the ground with a deep sigh. She repeated the process with Equinox's gilt.

Foxfire joined in then. He removed the ropes from the pigs' nose rings and helped Foxtrot to tie them around the animals' hind legs. Together, father and son slung heavy chains over two of the stoutest branches in the hickory and several more of the males joined them to help haul the pigs up by their ankles. Still sleeping deeply, they dangled with their snouts just above the sandy ground.

Solstice approached the young boar again. She knelt on the cold ground and cradled its head between her hands while she chanted softy in a language that Prowl didn't understand. It was a rolling, rumbling tongue. If the traditional avian language that he had learned was like singing, then this was like humming. Solstice didn't speak very loudly, but in the near silence before dawn he could feel her words thrumming in his ribs. She ended her prayer with a croon and, in one smooth motion, drew a heavy knife from her sleeve and slit the animal's throat.

Its blood steamed in the cool air and splashed into a large, shallow sliver basin on the ground beneath it. Prowl supposed that someone had put it there while Solstice was praying, because he hadn't noticed it earlier. The etchings on its side matched the knife. When it was full, Solstice pulled it away and allowed the rest of the blood to seep into the ground.

She went to the gilt and began praying again, but this time Prowl noticed Foxfire standing at her side with another basin. As his mate's prayer was drawing to a close, he slid the basin beneath the animal's nose and gave its shoulder an affectionate pat. Solstice collected the blood, handed him the knife, then stood and faced her family again.

"Every day, I pray for Primus's blessings upon each of you. On this day, the first of Spring, we honor the ancient traditions by offering a blood sacrifice to guide our prayers. Come forward that you may be marked."

Foxtrot, as eldest, was first. He and his mate and their four children came forward together to kneel before Solstice. She spoke to each of them individually and kissed their foreheads before she marked them and prayed. Equinox was next, with a collection of descendants that Prowl guessed spanned at least two generations. They knelt to receive their blessings and then joined the semi-circle again.

They went down the line, each knowing his or her own place. Some of Solstice's children were unmated and alone. Some had their great-grandchildren with them. Some, like Jazz, had brought along friends who couldn't or wouldn't join their own families. Solstice spoke to each one and prayed over them all.

After Claybank and Argent stepped back, Jazz tugged on Prowl's hand. They moved forward and knelt side by side. Prowl set Stormy in front of him. She looked up at the adults curiously and then mimicked their postures.

Solstice spoke to Jazz in that soft, rolling language with her hands on his shoulders. She kissed his forehead, then dipped two fingers in the boar's blood and marked the spot she had kissed, murmuring invocations as she did.

"Prowl," she said with a smile as she turned to him. "Jazz tells me you have not received a blessing in years."

He ducked his head. "My family is not as welcoming as it once was," he said simply.

Solstice tutted. "You and yours are welcome in my home and at my table whenever you require it." She spoke with a sing-song lilt as though she were reciting a formality. When he nodded in response she blessed and marked him as she had Jazz.

"_I am humbled by your favor, noble mother,"_ he murmured automatically. Catching the amusement in her eyes, he realized that he had said it in a traditional language she did not understand. Flushing, he repeated himself in the common language.

"And you, young lady," she smiled as Stormy looked up at her with wide eyes. "Be safe this coming year, little brave one, and every year after."

When Solstice had touched the gilt's blood to Stormy's forehead, the cub thanked her as her papa had – first in the avain language and then in the common. Prowl couldn't help but smiling proudly at Solstice's surprised chuckle.

"Primus's protection on all of you, my children," said Solstice. She prayed over them a final time with one hand on Jazz's shoulder and one hand on Prowl's so he could feel the canine prayer rolling through him. Jazz's hand rested on top of his own on Stormy's back, linking them all together.

He scooped up Stormy as he got to his feet and he and Jazz stepped back to let Ricochet come forward. Stormy was now wide awake and bored with the repetition of the ceremony. Jazz and Prowl distracted her as quietly as possible and caught her little fingers before she could smudge her blood mark.

When the youngest child – a sharp-eyed pup only a few years older than Stormy – rose from his blessing, the pack greeted the risen sun with a chorus of howls. Prowl flinched in surprise, which made Jazz's tail flick in amusement, and Stormy looked around owlishly before joining in with her own delighted whoop.

That was apparently the end of that, because immediately afterwards everyone broke into little groups, seemingly assigned to predetermined tasks. Some cleaned up the basins and knives. Others used plainer, more practical knives to dress the pig carcasses. Still others drifted towards the barn or the house.

Prowl gave Jazz a questioning look and received a shrug in response.

"I'm usually the one in charge of managin' the fire in the pits," Jazz said with a spark of glee in his pale eyes. "Could use some help keepin' the crazier ones from fallin' in."

"In a little bit," Solstice snapped behind them, making both of them jump. She jabbed Prowl's chest with a finger. "First, you are takin' that baby inside and getting her somethin' to eat."

"Yes, ma'am," said Prowl, allowing himself to smile when he saw the amusement in her eyes.

When they'd had a bite of breakfast and made it back outside, Prowl was directed over to where Foxtrot and a few others were nearly finished butchering the pigs. Prowl was hesitant at first – he knew even less about preparing meat than he did about managing a fire pit – but wrapping shoulders and ribs in wet burlap sacks wasn't too difficult. Besides, it kept Stormy further away from fires and holes in the ground, which was perfectly fine with him. He kept a firm hold on her hand as he carried what would become their dinner to the fire pits behind the barn.

Jazz had worked his magic with the fire. He stood back to let his siblings arrange the meat like they wanted it and then helped them cover the holes back up.

Stormy looked dubious about the whole thing.

"That'll be the best eatin' ya ever had, come sundown," Jazz assured her as he scooped her up.

Stormy leaned against his smoky shirt and sneezed.

ooo

Prowl fidgeted for half the morning before Jazz took pity on him.

"You really don't know how to relax and enjoy a day off, do you?" he said with only a hint of mocking in his tone.

"Normally, I would have a book to read," he said. "But I felt that would be rude."

"Nobody cares, man," said Jazz. "C'mon, I'll show you around."

So they ended up spending most of the day walking the fenceline around the property. It made for a rather long loop through pastures and planted fields and woods and a creek that turned into a swamp. Jazz had plenty of stories to tell about the things he and his siblings had done and Prowl was perfectly happy to listen. The coyote was a lively storyteller, with jokes and gestures seamlessly woven into the fabric of his tale. That attracted half of the kids to them, but neither of them minded the tagalongs. Stormy got a little surly and possessive, but she settled after a scolding and a hug and then she rode on Prowl's shoulders so she could lord over the other children.

They made their way back to the house as night was falling. The two long tables and three smaller ones in the dining room were groaning under the weight of all the food. The pig meat had a table all to itself. The others were packed with everything that Solstice had spent the last few days cooking.

There were far too many of them to eat inside, so everyone fixed a plate and went out to the yard where there were lanterns hanging on the porch and in the trees. Jazz and Prowl ended up shoulder-to-shoulder on the front steps with Stormy a few steps below them. She finished her own and ate off of both of their plates even after they went back for seconds and Jazz kept piling more things on Prowl's plate.

"Here, get you some butter beans . . . . Oh, and some of these . . . . Yes, it's supposed to be orange, you heathen. It's good, I promise . . . . You're supposed to mix this with that. No, really . . . . Don't forget the cornbread, bird brain . . . ."

Prowl was sure that he wouldn't need to eat again for a week, and that was before he even looked at the deserts. He changed his mind for some peach cobbler and ended up sharing a handful of divinity with Jazz. Then they leaned against each other and watched Stormy and the other kids run around burning off energy from all the sugar they had just eaten.

Jazz, it turned out, got his storytelling from his father. Prowl and the others listened to Foxfire with rapt attention until well after midnight. Prowl found his fingers itching to take notes, but he knew the tales would lose their charm if committed to flat, dry paper. Foxfire's words were alive in the air and Prowl didn't dare try to catch them. He admired them from a respectful distance, like a beautiful but skittish wild animal, until Foxfire sent them all to bed.

ooo

Everyone was more subdued on the ride back to the train station. Stormy was sorry to say goodbye to all her new friends, but worn out from playing with them, so she only grumbled for a little bit before she curled up in Prowl's lap and went to sleep. Jazz and Ricochet ribbed each other with the pseudo-aggressive affection of brothers.

Ricochet watched as Prowl carefully transferred the sleeping Stormy to Jazz. She didn't wake, only burrowed into his jacket as he headed over to the ticket booth at the smooth gait that was usually reserved for stalking something, but also served to keep from jostling a napping cub. Prowl watched them go before turning back to the truck. The affection must have shown more clearly on his face than he had thought, for Ricochet was giving him a half curious, half resigned look.

"Is this the part where you insinuate that I'll turn up dead in a ditch if I ever hurt your brother?" Prowl asked casually as he hefted a suitcase.

Ricochet chuckled darkly. "You wouldn't turn up anywhere, my friend. They'd _never_ find what was left of you."

"Fair enough."

Ricochet smirked. "So, you promise?"

"That I'll never hurt him? I can't promise that."

Ricochet's smirk turned a little colder. "That so?" he drawled.

Prowl turned to face him fully. These were weighty matters, never mind the fact that they were having the conversation in a dusty parking lot and Prowl was toying with a small purple backpack as he spoke. "Jazz is . . . is very important to me. I would never willingly cause him pain, but I cannot see the future. And I don't make promises I can't keep."

The coyote was watching his face, ears pressed forward and eyes thoughtful. "I can see why he likes you," he said at last. "You're smarter than you let on. And braver, too, I'd bet." He laughed suddenly and the cold gleam in his eyes faded to his usual mischievousness.

"Is that a good thing?"

"Reckon so. His line of work – he doesn't need anyone afraid for him . . . or of him."

"We trust each other," Prowl said simply.

"So I gathered," Ricochet said, tipping his head to look back at Jazz and Stormy. "But I had to give you a little bit of grief about it. He is my brother, after all."

"I would expect nothing less."

Ricochet chuckled. "I'll bet your eleventy dozen cousins and so-forth have been givin' him just as bad, huh?"

But Prowl just shook his head. "My family and I . . . . We aren't close."

Green eyes gave him an appraising look again. "Huh," said Ricochet. "Guess we get double duty, then."

Jazz reappeared before Prowl could ask what he meant. Prowl took Stormy back and left the brothers to say their goodbyes. There was back-slapping and devilish grins and one brief hug.

Prowl was an independent sort. Though he missed his brother and his parents, he didn't often dwell on that loss. He rarely spent time in the company of his remaining family for the sheer pleasure of it, and had almost forgotten what it was like. Matriarch was undoubtedly fond of him in her own way and Phantom and her brood were warming up to him, but he had little to do with any of his relatives besides Stormhunter. He'd never allowed himself to wonder what it would be like if his family was as close-knit as Jazz's.

"You okay?" Jazz nudged his shoulder, making him start.

"Yes," he said hoarsely. "I'm fine," he added, more surely, when he'd settled his mind.

Jazz looked doubtful, but let it pass. They gathered up their things and waved to Ricochet one last time.

"He wasn't givin' ya trouble, was he?" Jazz asked, nodding towards the departing truck.

"Not much," Prowl said.

ooo

It was nearly three weeks later when Jazz appeared in Prowl's office late one afternoon.

"So," he said, folding his arms and propping his hip against the desk to stare down at Prowl.

"So?" Prowl said, leaning back in his chair and staring right back at him.

"So why d' you reckon," said Jazz, "that ever since Springsday I've had no less than a dozen calls from my brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, a few friends of the family, and my own parents, all wanting to know if _my_ intentions towards _you_ are strictly honorable?"

Prowl choked and took a moment to recover while Jazz loomed over him. "Because you get it honest and your whole family is backwards?" he hazarded.

Jazz's eyes narrowed, but there was a muscle twitching in his cheek like he was fighting back a grin. "They _like_ you," he said.

"That is not unreasonable," said Prowl as he folded his hands. "You seem to be quite fond of me."

"They have never liked anyone I courted. Ever. Always try to run 'em off."

That earned him a cool look. "Perhaps you should trust their opinions a little more. It seems that they have better taste."

Jazz gave into the grin. "Yeah, guess so."

Prowl absolutely, positively did not blush. "Who was it, anyway?" he asked.

Jazz rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Foxtrot, Swinger, Claybank and Argent, Tango – of all people – then Ricky, Momma, Equinox, Moonsong and two of her kids, and Regulus and Mossgrove from down the road who haven't even met you!"

Prowl spread his hands. "What can I say? I'm likable."

Jazz grumbled and rolled his eyes but pulled Prowl to his feet and kissed his forehead. "No more of this conspiring against me with my own kin business," he said, dropping his chin to Prowl's shoulder.

"I did no conspiring whatsoever," Prowl said. He hooked his thumbs in Jazz's beltloops and leaned against him. "You can blame Ricochet for all that."

Jazz made a noise of triumph. "So that's what you two were talking about!"

"In part," Prowl conceded. "But if I am not allowed to conspire with your relatives, then you are not allowed to do the same with mine," he added. "This means no more annoying songs, pranks, games or other forms of plotting between you and Stormy against me."

Jazz was quiet for a long moment. "Fine," he muttered. "You can conspire with my relatives."


	5. Courtship

**Disclaimer:** _Transformers_ is the property of Hasbro et al.

**Title:** Blood Ties – Courtship

**Rating:** K+

**Word Count:** ~10,000

**Warnings: ** Alternate Universe; Transformers as organic animal shapeshifters; kid!fic (no mpreg) with said kid being an OC; mentions of emotional trauma; slash no longer subtext

**Timeframe/Setting:** G1 pre-war AU. So very, very AU. Set in a world of human/animal shapeshifters where magic and technology live side by side.

**Summary:** Jazz is plotting but ends up in trouble and Prowl is in a snit.

**A/N:** Well, I was expecting short and fluffy but ended up with longish and plotty. Also, I now have awesome fanart! There's a link on my profile, but be careful – it's so cute it might make your teeth rot.

* * *

><p>"Smokey, my man! Just who I was hopin' to see!"<p>

Smokescreen wheeled around, crest flaring and one hand drifting to his hip. Sneaking up on people could be a deadly game when one's victims were armed enforcers. Fortunately, Smokey wasn't the particularly twitchy sort. Jazz smiled in a mostly friendly fashion. Smokescreen settled a bit, smoothing his crest and stepping back into the doorway of his office.

"Jazz. Why exactly were you hoping to see me?" Smokescreen did not sound enthusiastic and Jazz grinned appeasingly.

"Well, I could use some advice . . ."

One brow arched.

"About Prowl."

Smokescreen sighed. "You certainly know more about him than I do."

"Him personally, yeah. His culture, not so much."

Jazz noticed the spark of interest in Smokey's eye before he extinguished it. "What about his culture?" the tactician asked slowly.

Fidgeting hands shoved in his pockets, Jazz said, "The – ah – courtship aspects of it."

"Indeed." Without the barest flicker of emotion, Smokescreen studied Jazz in silence for nearly half a minute. Then he abruptly turned around. The door swished open automatically and he strode back into his office, beckoning Jazz as he did so. He took a seat at his desk, gestured Jazz to one of the chairs opposite it, folded his hands under his chin and stared at Jazz without blinking. "You intend to court him, I presume?" he said after a long moment.

"Yes," said Jazz, sounding much calmer than he felt.

"Interesting." On that unhelpful note, he fell silent again.

"So, can ya help me out a little here?" Jazz asked finally.

"Perhaps." It looked like the beginning of yet another long silence, but Smokescreen leaned back in his chair and said, "Have you courted anyone before?"

Jazz snorted. "Uh, yeah."

"Someone you were truly serious about?"

Jazz made a vague gesture with his shoulders. "Not like this," he said finally.

"And never a raptor?"

"No."

"I see."

Jazz looked at him skeptically.

"Raptor culture is very different from what you are familiar with," Smokey said with the air of a professor giving a lecture. "I can understand that you'd be intimidated, especially by a clan as large and powerful as Prowl's."

"Got it in one," Jazz said drily.

"Alright, then. What do you know about raptor courtship?"

"Besides askin' permission and givin' gifts, not much."

Smokey nodded to himself. "Given the very little I know about Prowl's interactions with his family, I think it best that you speak with him before going to his Matriarch for permission."

Jazz nodded. He'd hinted at the idea with Prowl, only for it to be swiftly and vehemently shot down. Matriarch was fond enough of Prowl to overlook certain aspects of his life. It wouldn't do anyone any favors to force her to directly address those issues.

"Very well. What about the gift-giving?"

"Well, I said I could bring him some shiny stuff and he walloped me with a book and said the he wasn't a hen," Jazz mumbled.

"Hardcover or paperback?"

"What?"

"The book. Hardcover or paperback?"

"Oh, uh . . . paper."

"Hm. Guess he really likes you."

"Look," Jazz said seriously. "I just . . . I want to do right by him."

Smokescreen raised an eyebrow.

"He's so traditional," continued Jazz, squirming a little.

"Traditional?" Smokey echoed slowly. He folded his hands on his desk. "You do realize that Prowl is part of a strictly matriarchal culture with a disdain for outsiders. As of now, he is not only seeking a relationship with another male, he is seeking a relationship with a species that his culture would find unsuitable. Not to mention the fact that he is also raising his child – his _daughter_ – without a mate or much in the way of female influence. Prowl couldn't defy any more raptor traditions if he tried."

"Nothin' wrong with any of that!" Jazz snapped automatically.

Smokey made a placating gesture with a smile. "No, there isn't. Well, you and I think there isn't. My grandmother would flay me alive if she ever heard me voicing that particular sentiment. And Prowl's clan is likely worse."

Jazz settled down with a muttered apology. "Your secret's safe with me, then."

"What I'm trying to say, Jazz, is that culture and tradition may not be as important to Prowl as you think they are," said Smokescreen gently.

"Oh, I know," Jazz said slowly, piecing together his thoughts. "And I understand what you're sayin' about him bein' defiant, I really do. But sometimes, little things he does, habits, stuff he don't even realize he's doin' – it affects him. More than he thinks it does. And if that's the way he was raised – the way he expects things to be, I just . . . . I just don't want to disappoint him."

Smokescreen studied him in silence for a while longer. "I think I understand," he said finally. "Alright, I'll tell you this. Traditionally, males are the active courters. They focus on asking permission from the female's family and giving her – and them – gifts. Things to convince them that he'll be a good mate. It's fairly straightforward. Prowl is, obviously, not a female. So, if you want to court him, you're also going to have to let _him_ court _you_."

"But –"

Smokescreen held up a hand. "I don't mean sit around and expect him do everything," he continued. "Spend time with him; give him gifts. Do what comes naturally. You're his best friend. You know what he likes. Rely more on that knowledge than on trying to do what you think you are supposed to do and he'll thank you for it."

ooo

Spending time together was fine. They could do that. It seemed a little too easy, Jazz thought, but it was familiar and comfortable so he went with it.

Since they lived together now (again), they spent most of their off time together. Back at the academy, they'd had one room with two berths, two desks, and two tiny closets. Their house in Praxus was a little more spacious, with enough bedrooms for everyone. Prowl and Stormy had the two on one end of the house, giving Jazz some privacy at the other end. It kept the music at tolerable levels, though Jazz still spent half his nights with Prowl anyway. The homey little kitchen and living room in the middle seemed to be everyone's favorite part. They had all taken an immediate liking to the place, even Stormy, who had been skeptical about moving. Jazz found himself thinking of it as "home," a fondness he'd never felt for his various apartments.

His courtship plans went on the back burner for a week or so while he was on a case. So many days and nights in the gladiatorial rings made his longing for his home and his pack an almost physical ache. He was dirty, miserable, and exhausted by the time he walked in the door. Stormy tackled him, wiggling all over and chattering exuberantly. Prowl looked up from his book and smiled in the way made even his eyes look warm and happy.

Jazz peeled the cub off of his legs long enough to get a bath and a late dinner. He spent far too long deciding whether or not it was too early to go to bed before he transformed and curled up on the couch. He had long ago learned that Prowl fidgeted when he read and the raptor couldn't ignore a coyote pelt under his hands. Jazz oh-so-casually propped his head on Prowl's knee. He then heaved a contented sigh when Prowl obligingly rubbed circles on his scalp and massaged the roots of his ears.

"Shameless," Prowl murmured and rearranged his long legs so Jazz had more room.

Jazz snorted and stretched himself nearly the full length of the couch with his head pressed against Prowl's belly.

Prowl ran his fingers through his dark ruff, combing and smoothing the stiff fur. Stormy hopped up and snuggled against his flank. Jazz decided he wasn't going to bed any time soon. He was content there with his pack.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Jazz awoke half wild with nameless fear. Every beat of his heart seemed to make his body shudder. He was smothering beneath a crushing weight, but his limbs were too weak to fight free. He kicked and twisted his head this way and that. Something was hissing in his ear. No, not hissing – whispering and humming in a low voice. He recognized Prowl even though he didn't understand the words and went limp.

No longer blinded by panic, Jazz took stock of his surroundings. He was on the living room floor with Prowl kneeling straddle of him, one hand holding his scruff and the other clamped so tightly around his muzzle that it cut off his air and made his teeth grind together. Prowl loosened his grip by degrees and sat back on his heels when the coyote stopped fighting him. Jazz lay gasping and trembling while Prowl continued to murmur soothing nonsense. When he forced his eyes to focus, he found himself staring straight at Stormy.

The room was full of long shadows, though Jazz couldn't begin to guess whether the day was starting or ending. Stormy crouched under an end table in beast form, her body arched as if to turn away from him and watch him at the same time. He could see the flickering blue-green sheen of her eyes as she glanced at him and then away, back to him and away again. It was a fearful expression that should never have appeared on such a bold and rambunctious cub.

Fresh guilt was nearly as overwhelming as his previous fear. He slithered out from under Prowl, ears flat and tail tucked, but he had barely taken two steps before Prowl caught him. He hauled him back against his chest and kissed him between the ears. Jazz made a pathetic noise that was supposed to be a growl but came out more as a grumbly sort of whine. Prowl shifted his grip so he could smooth ruffled fur with one hand. It was pleasant, of course, but Jazz didn't deserve to be soothed at the moment. He tried to squirm away but Prowl held him in his lap with an arm around his waist, his side against Prowls front, head tucked under his chin.

Jazz gave up and transformed in an awkward jumble of limbs. His clothes were all twisted around him and his skin was clammy with sweat. He tried again to pull away. Prowl calmly adjusted again and carded his fingers through Jazz's hair. Jazz gave up. He fought to keep himself from being comforted by the father of the child he'd just attacked. But he instinctively trusted Prowl. He couldn't help but be soothed by the familiar hands and voice.

"Stormhunter, come here, please," said Prowl, still in that soft, gentle tone.

Stormy didn't move except to turn and look at him.

"You aren't in trouble," said Prowl. "No one is angry with you. Come here."

Stormy continued to stare.

"You are safe, Stormy; I promise you."

After a long pause she crept out on her belly. She watched Jazz with huge, sad eyes and skirted around him to approach Prowl's side, where Jazz couldn't reach her. Jazz closed his eyes when Prowl removed the hand that had been stroking his back. He felt Prowl moving as he examined the cub.

"You're fine," Prowl said reassuringly. "Now go see Jazz so he can apologize."

She slunk in a wide half-circle to sit in front of him, still out of reach. There was a short, shallow scratch on her cheek. Prowl was right – she had received worse injuries while roughhousing with Streetwise. But she had never been purposefully struck in all her life. The worst of her punishments from Prowl had amounted to a gentle nip or swat that didn't leave a mark. The cut was already scabbed over, but a thin trickle of blood had stained her fur like a tear track.

An inch higher and he could have damaged her eye. Any lower would have been dangerously near her soft throat. If he had fully bitten down on her head or neck, he might very well have killed her.

"I'm sorry, Stormy," he said thickly, watching her feet instead of her face. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

It was a long moment before she got up and padded to his side. Her whiskers tickled his fingers as she snuffled them, but he forced himself to keep still. She examined both hands thoroughly and propped herself up on his chest to sniff of his face. Then she clambered up in his lap and made herself comfortable.

"You forgive too easily," Jazz murmured, stroking the top of her head with his fingertips.

Perhaps she had planned to do it all along, or perhaps he had startled or annoyed her by petting her, but the words were no sooner out of his mouth than she had bitten down on his hand between his thumb and forefinger.

"Stormy!" said Prowl, sounding almost amusingly shocked.

Stormy shook her head back and forth the way Jazz would do to snap a squirrel's neck. She wasn't strong enough to break any bones, but her small, sharp teeth ripped jagged holes in his skin. Then, apparently satisfied, she let go and curled up with a soft huff.

"I deserved that," Jazz said quickly.

"Nevertheless," said Prowl, "it's not your place to decide, missy!" He flicked Stormy's ear.

"I lunged at her," said Jazz. "I hurt her."

"You didn't do it on purpose," said Prowl. "_She_ did. Are we going to have to have a family discussion on the appropriate use of one's teeth?"

Jazz actually snickered. "Maybe so, Papa."

He gathered Stormy up to his chest. As usual, she transformed into human form and wrapped herself around him. He could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat.

They stayed pressed together for a long while – until Stormy looked up and asked if they were _ever_ going to eat supper.

The meal was a silent, awkward affair. Jazz pushed his leftovers around on his plate without eating much. Stormy bolted her food since neither of the adults bothered to scold her. She cleaned her plate in five minutes and climbed up in Prowl's lap even though she was getting too old to beg. To his credit, Prowl was eating slowly and methodically, though perhaps a bit more methodically than usual. He took two bites of meat, then two bites of greens, then a piece of roll, then back to the meat again until he was finished. It was oddly hypnotizing.

The clatter of Jazz's fork against his plate startled all of them. He hastily put it down and hoped no one had noticed his hands shaking. Stormy dutifully gathered up the dishes and stacked them by the sink before Prowl released her. Washing and drying them was a boring task, usually made interesting by the fact that Prowl and Jazz shared it. On this night, it was only more difficult. Neither could wait to escape the kitchen when they were done.

Stormy was playing with her toys in her room. Wonder of wonders, she actually made them run and talk and eat rather than just gnawing on them as she was wont to do. Both adults checked on her twice before retreating to the living room. Prowl curled up with a book and Jazz sat with his elbows on his knees, turning a wooden flute over and over in his hands.

After half an hour of this, Prowl glanced up. There was something in that particular expression – stern and disappointed and little exasperated – leveled at him over the top of a book that made Jazz expect to find a pair of old fashioned gold framed reading glasses perched on Prowl's nose. Never mind the fact that he'd always had and likely would always have perfect raptor's eyes, he had never looked more like a fatherly scholar and some part of Jazz's mind insisted that the image wasn't quite complete.

Jazz realized that Prowl had said something and sheepishly asked him to repeat it.

"I asked if something was troubling you, but I believe you have answered my question."

Jazz made a face and examined the flute so he wouldn't have to meet that piercing gaze. "How long are you givin' me to get out?"

Prowl was silent for so long that he risked a glance at him only to find him blinking in confusion. "Get out of where? What are you talking about?"

Jazz slumped back and spread his arms to indicate the house at large. "Out of – out of _here_. Surely you don't want me around anymore."

Prowl's frown deepened as he processed this. "Jazz," he said softly, "if I truly believed you were a danger to my child, I would never let you near her. And if you should ever prove me wrong –" His voice rose to drown out Jazz's protest. "– rest assured that I will deal with the problem. Thoroughly."

That disappointed scholarly expression had shifted to something that suggested that rolling over and whining for mercy might be the best course of action. Jazz focused of the flute and made a conscious effort to keep his tail from clamping itself between his legs.

"So . . . so, what d' ya want me to do?" he finally asked.

The book closed with a snap, making Jazz jump, but Prowl's voice was soft again when he spoke. "I want you to speak with Ratchet," he said.

Jazz's head jerked up.

"I fear you'll do yourself harm, moreso that I fear you harming Stormy," Prowl continued. "Or me," he added as an afterthought.

"But what – I mean – _Ratchet_?"

"Possibly Smokescreen as well. He has extensive training and experience in psychology."

"So you think I'm crazy," said Jazz heavily.

"I've known you were crazy since the moment I met you," said Prowl with a little smile.

Jazz bared his teeth in an expression that was most certainly _not_ a smile, then abruptly looked away.

"Oh, for – Jazz, really."

Jazz spooked when Prowl suddenly appeared in his field of vision by kneeling on the floor at his feet.

"I am worried about you, Jazz," he said. "The occasional nightmare is one thing. These constantly recurring night terrors are something else. I had thought – I had hoped that they would get better over time, but they seem to have only gotten worse."

"Well, it ain't like the pits are something ya get used to. Ever' time I think I've seen it all . . ."He shook his head.

"I know," said Prowl. "But you can't expect to do your job – or anything, really – if you are not well rested and calm. And . . . honestly, you frightened me tonight. It hurts me to know that you are so terrified, and I have never seen you so . . . so delirious that you didn't recognize me or Stormy."

Jazz flinched. "I'm sorry."

"I know. You couldn't help it but you still feel guilty for it."

He nodded.

"Have you noticed them getting worse?"

Jazz sighed. "Yeah."

"Have you given any thought to . . . to trying to find something to help?"

"I _have_ tried," said Jazz. "Half my life I've tried. Momma took me to every doctor and hedgewitch she could find when I was a young'un. Never did no good."

"Anything more recent?"

"What's the use?"

"Well," said Prowl in the tone of voice he used when Stormy was being unreasonable, "there have certainly been many medical advances since we were children."

"If you have any magic cures, let me at 'em," Jazz snapped.

"I don't have any magic cures. All I'm saying is that there might be something new that you haven't tried before. But you'll have to ask Ratchet or Smokescreen. Preferably both."

"And have 'em do what? Drug me to the eyeballs?"

Prowl sighed and sat back on his heels. "I would prefer that they didn't."

"But you'd make me do it, if that's what they said?" Some small part of Jazz's mind warned that he was being argumentative and unfair, but he didn't feel like listening to it.

Prowl's eyes flashed. "Primus knows I can't _make_ you do anything. You should know that well enough."

"Damn straight."

"I'm asking. As your friend, I am concerned for your wellbeing," Prowl said frostily.

"Yeah, well, sometimes you ask too much."

Prowl sighed so sharply it was almost a hiss. "As you will, then," he said, flinging his hands dismissively. He stood up in one smooth movement and stalked out of the room.

Jazz slept alone in his own bed that night, curled up in human form with his face to the wall. He knew that he was pouting. He knew that he had been irresponsible, spiteful, and unkind.

He just kept telling himself that he didn't care.

ooo

In the days following, they all played a subtle and delicate game of ignoring one another and pretending not to sulk. Jazz was subdued and spoke only when necessary. Prowl treated him with nothing but unfailing civility, but he kept his distance. It had been nearly twenty years since Jazz had been regarded with the cool aloofness with which Prowl treated strangers, and he quickly came to understand why so many people thought Prowl to be emotionless and uncaring. Prowl and Stormy interacted normally enough, but Stormy had turned shy of Jazz and spent most of her play time in human form. Chasing and wrestling in the yard in beast form had been their favorite game, but Stormy came to prefer playing with her toys alone.

They ate together sometimes and they still shared the living room in the evening, though they were careful not to make eye contact and the warm, homey feeling was gone. Jazz didn't want to test Prowl's patience with music and he refused to pick up the book Prowl had recommended to him (no matter how much he had been enjoying it) so he usually ended up going to bed even before Stormy. Prowl wasn't reading as much either, and instead devoted his time to cleaning and organizing. Much to Stormy's annoyance, he made her do the same.

In short, they were all thoroughly miserable and everyone was too stubborn to admit it.

After three days of this, Smokescreen snagged Jazz one afternoon at work.

"I don't know what in the Pit you did," he hissed, hauling Jazz into his office by one arm, "but whatever it was, _fix it_."

Jazz shook himself loose and glared. "What makes you think –"

"Prowl has been – Primus help me – _sulking_. Stormy is fine and the only other person close enough to affect him like that is you."

"So he has an off day and you automatically assume that it's –"

"I guessed. But you're not usually this defensive so, now, yes, I'm assuming that you two have had some sort of . . . spat."

Jazz rocked back on his heels and folded his arms. Smokescreen looked back at him with a cool, calculating look that was not unfamiliar.

"But you are guessing that it was my fault," said Jazz slowly.

"No, I'm not" Smokescreen smirked. "And I know you have to be the first one to apologize. Something's stung his pride and he's not going to unbend until you've soothed it."

Jazz snorted.

"He's also pitifully depressed. Downright gloomy."

"So your, uh, tactical analysis of the situation dictates an emotional appeal?" Jazz said skeptically.

"To you, yes," said Smokescreen. "Prowl won't listen to me."

Jazz chuckled. "Ya know, a few days ago I had to practically beg you for help with him."

"A few days ago, it wasn't affecting my work environment," Smokescreen said coolly. "Whatever the two of you do in private – or don't do, as it were – is none of my concern so long as it does not infringe upon me or my affairs. But now it is infringing," his voice softened as he stepped closer, "so I expect you to fix it."

And on that note, he manhandled Jazz back out in the hall and slid the door shut again.

"Thanks for all your help, Smokey," Jazz said loudly. "It's good to know that you care."

Laughing ruefully and shaking his head, Jazz continued on his way.

It was the wrong time of the year for apples. Jazz knew that perfectly well – he had grown up on a farm, after all. But farmers tended to know other farmers who knew other farmers and so he had a network of contacts that likely encompassed half the continent. He called his brother Claybank, who gave him the number of a friend, who put him in contact with a cousin's neighbor, who had a great-grandfather with an orchard in a hothouse. Before the week was out, there was a bowl on the kitchen table full of crisp, red apples as big as Jazz's fist.

Prowl and Jazz were still dancing around one another without talking much. The apples went ignored for two days, but after that they began to disappear one at a time until they were all gone. On the night that the last one vanished, Prowl cooked supper for the first time in a while. Jazz arrived too late to eat with him and Stormy, but there was a plate waiting for him in the icebox. It was a little thing, so subtle that from anyone else it might have been a coincidence. Jazz didn't believe in coincidences, especially when it came to Prowl.

Contacting Claybank for help had been easy, almost fun, but there was another conversation that Jazz wasn't looking forward to nearly as much.

"Yo, Ratch, you in here?"

Jazz entered the med bay cautiously. Ratchet was a brilliant doctor, but he was also a bear transformer and exemplified all of the patience and gentleness that one would expect from an old boar grizzly. With his sturdy build, close-cropped silver hair, and perpetual scowl, his human form looked more like a bad-tempered drill sergeant than a medic. He certainly had the lungs of one.

"On the berth with you!" a voice barked from the depths of the med bay.

Jazz hastily complied. The bay was a labyrinth of banks of machines, racks of equipment, and medical berths scattered in seemingly random order with narrow aisles zigzagging between. Ratchet appeared a moment later with a battered medical kit in one hand and, for some reason, a wrench in the other. He strode up to Jazz, nose twitching as he looked him up and down.

"Well, where is it?"

Jazz drew back slightly. "Where's, um . . . what?"

"Your injury."

"Well, actually –"

"If you've just dropped by to aggravate me, I assure you that it would be wise to rethink your plan."

"No, it's just – why does everyone always assume the worst about me?" Jazz snapped.

"Perhaps because you've been stomping about in a temper for the past week? Nobody likes it when special operatives get snappish. Makes folks . . . twitchy," said Ratchet.

"I haven't even _seen_ you this week!"

The medic shrugged. "People talk."

Jazz eyed him shrewdly. "You're as gossipy as a little old hen, aren't you?"

Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do you have a reason for being here or not?"

It took a bit more prodding to get the full story out of Jazz – the childhood nightmares, the current stress, the awful night not long ago when it had all come to a head. Ratchet folded his arms and propped his hip against the berth opposite Jazz and listened intently. Jazz spoke slowly and haltingly, and Ratchet questioned him throughout until he was sure he had all relevant information. By the time it was over, more than an hour had passed and Jazz felt wrung out.

When Jazz finally wound down, there was a quiet moment as he drank from the canteen Ratchet had handed him at some point and swung his feet back and forth. Ratchet rubbed his chin and stared vacantly at some point on the wall behind Jazz's head.

"Well?" Jazz said hoarsely. "Can ya do anything?"

"Maybe," Ratchet said finally. "There's a colleague – well, he's really more of a friend of mine – he'd talked about something years ago. I'll have to see if anything ever came of it."

Jazz nodded, trying not to look too hopeful.

"And let me see that hand of yours."

Jazz proffered his bitten hand. The toothmarks were partly healed and already fading. Ratchet prodded them, warned him not to let them get infected, and reminded him that he probably did deserve them.

"Yes, sir," Jazz said wearily.

Ratchet's gaze sharpened. "Now, go home and get some rest."

Jazz gave him a bland stare.

"Try to get some rest. Then try to fix whatever's wrong with you lovebirds –"

"Primus, does everybody know?"

"– and let me worry about this, alright?" he finished in a tone that was almost kind.

Jazz sighed and scrubbed at his eyes. "Yeah, alright. Thanks, Ratch."

Ratchet clapped him on the shoulder as he got to his feet. "I can't speak for Prowl, but if ever I had a disagreement with a girl I was courting, I found it best to just assume that everything was my fault."

Jazz made a face. "Prowl has made certain to inform me that he is not, in fact, a girl."

Ratchet grunted. "He's a bit on the self-righteous side, though."

Jazz automatically bristled, but . . . "Yeah, he kinda can be."

Ratchet grinned as he shooed Jazz out the door. "You just worry about him. Let me worry about you."

ooo

After the apples, Prowl was, if not warm, then somewhat less cool.

One afternoon when Prowl was still at work and Stormy was at the youth center, Jazz took it upon himself to help out with the rather early spring cleaning that Prowl had begun. He dusted and mopped and organized until dark. When Prowl got home – with Stormy cheerfully running circles around him – Jazz tucked himself in one corner of the couch and tried not to look smug.

At least, he fought the smugness until he realized that Prowl was going along behind him and cleaning all over again. Then he gave up and went to bed.

After that, he began experimenting. He chatted and laughed as if nothing in the world were amiss and then he didn't say a word for days. He played every kind of music he knew (which was quite a lot) and then went about his day with nary a whistle. He attempted to cook something elaborate and delicious. That one didn't work out quite so well, but he did avoid setting fire to the kitchen. He would have fawned shamelessly over Stormy, but she wouldn't give him the time of day. Prowl gave no outward indication one way or another, but he surely must have thought that Jazz was off his rocker. Jazz gave up the experiments and went back to the drawing board.

Jazz plotted. Fortunately for him, "I like you a lot; do you like me, too?" gifts were remarkably similar to "I am a wretched creature unworthy to grovel at your feet" gifts. In Prowl's case, this usually meant books. Buying books was tricky, as literature was one of the few things Prowl indulged in. While his tastes were varied, they were oftentimes expensive and obscure as well. Fortunately for Jazz, he was as meticulous in his hobby as he was nearly everything else and kept detailed records of his collection. Jazz discreetly copied the files on one of Prowl's datapads to one of his own and set to work.

After another week or so, Smokescreen pulled him aside to tell him that he was doing a good job. Jazz was pleased until Smokey's questions began to get more pointed (really, Jazz had defended his intentions and ideas to half of his own family and he really didn't feel like doing so again) and so Jazz made his excuses and escaped as quickly as he could. He never thought he's see the day when he willingly ran to the med bay.

As it turned out, Ratchet's friend wanted measurements. Lots of measurements. Jazz spent most of an evening in the med bay. Ratchet measured his height and weight and took an inordinate number of vials of blood. He also measured the circumference of his head, the length of his fur in beast form, his lung capacity and countless other things that Jazz found rather irrelevant. Judging from the amount of grumbling and rueful chuckles, Ratchet agreed with him. The medic seemed just as happy to see him go as Jazz was to leave.

"And how exactly will all this help?" Jazz asked as he pulled on his jacket.

"Hanged if I know," said Ratchet.

ooo

One night when Jazz had gone to bed immediately after supper, he was startled out of a light doze when Prowl tapped on his door. He opened the door to find Prowl with his face as blank as a mask holding Stormy with a face that was blotchy and tear-streaked.

"Forgive me if it's too much to ask," said Prowl coolly, "but she wants you."

Jazz had the cub tucked in his arms before he had a chance to think about it. Prowl turned on his heel and left.

"What's the matter, baby girl?" he asked, rubbing her back with one hand. When had she gotten so heavy? She had nuzzled her head under his chin and wrapped all four limbs around him, so she didn't require that much effort to hold. It hadn't been _that_ long since she had flung herself at him so carelessly and trustingly, but he was abruptly reminded of how fast she was growing.

"Had a bad dream," she mumbled.

He kissed her tangled curls. "I'm sorry, baby. Those can be rough."

"Papa said . . ." She sniffed and gulped. He automatically gave her a handkerchief. "Papa said you gets 'em too."

He nodded. "Sometimes I do."

"How d'you make 'em go 'way?"

He grimaced and hugged her a little tighter. "I can't really make them stop," he admitted. "Mostly I just talk to your papa or Ricky until I can go to sleep again."

She stiffened. "Don't wanna go to sleep!" she whimpered.

"Maybe just talk about it for a while?"

"Nuh-uh!" She shook her head.

He didn't press the issue. She had was nearly five years old – old enough to sleep in her own bed and not throw a tantrum whenever things didn't go her way, or so she said – but he didn't care to test her tonight.

"Okay, I know the feeling. What do you want, little girl?"

She sniffed again and said very softly, "Sing for me?"

Jazz chuckled and kissed her head again. Stormy had always treated him like her own personal jukebox – which, to be fair, wasn't far from the truth. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed it. "And what song does the lady require?"

"Somethin' happy and sad."

Others might have found this a challenge. Not Jazz. After a moment's thought, he launched into a jaunty, upbeat tune about the ghost of a hanged man calling to his lover. It was made to dance to, and before he could second guess himself, Jazz two-stepped down the hall with Stormy snickering against his neck.

Prowl was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in front of the bookshelf. The lowest shelf was devoted to Stormy's books so she could reach them easily. Prowl had taken them all out and arranged them in neat stacks around himself. He was in the process of putting them back a few at a time. Knowing Prowl, Jazz would be willing to bet that they were now dusted, repaired, and in alphabetical order. Knowing Stormy, he was willing to bet that they wouldn't stay that way for long.

Prowl did not approve of the hanged man song, so as it drew to a close, Jazz started a more mundane lullaby to appease him. It was a low, crooning song in the style of his namesake, and one of the few that all three of them could usually agree on. Stormy began to fidget until Jazz shifted his dance into a smooth waltz to match the new song. He felt her relaxing against him.

"Too slow," she mumbled.

"You like this song," he reminded her.

"Yeah . . . but not –" She gave a huge yawn. "I'm not sleepy."

"Hmm. Okay."

He switched to a different song, a little faster but still soft. It was high and eerie, one of Stormy's favorites. She settled more comfortably against him. Even a waltz would jostle her, so he swayed on the spot until he finished the lyrics and hummed for a few minutes more. He automatically shot Prowl a questioning glance and received a nod in return.

Stormy whined when he tucked her back in bed, so he sat down beside her and rubbed her back until she settled. Once she was still, he brushed a thumb over her cheek. The cut had healed to a dull pink line that would fade. Some part of Jazz that had been tight and worried slowly relaxed. He smoothed the covers and tucked one of her many plush toys in her arms before he got up to leave. The floor would normally be a minefield of books and toys, but when Prowl was in a mood everything was spotless. He was almost to the door when Stormy spoke up.

"Mm-uh, Beauty," she mumbled, sounding more asleep than awake.

Rolling his eyes with fond exasperation, he rummaged around the toy chest until he found a soft black horse. Stormy wrapped herself around it and burrowed under her pillow. Jazz stepped lightly towards the door, but she was snoring by the time he reached it.

Surprisingly, Prowl wasn't lurking in the hallway. Jazz hesitated for a moment. Bedroom or living room? He wasn't sleepy and Prowl was still shelving books. Not long ago, the answer would have been obvious. As it was, Jazz took one last look at Stormy and a few deep breaths before he went and settled on the couch.

"Is she alright?" Prowl asked without turning around.

"Huh? Yeah." Jazz rubbed his face. "She's zonked."

Prowl hummed approvingly. His movements slowed. "Thank you," he said softly.

A smile twitched at the corner of Jazz's mouth. "You're welcome, Prowler."

Prowl looked over his shoulder, perhaps meaning to give him an answering smile, and froze. Jazz tensed under his scrutinizing stare. Prowl stood up, unfolding his lanky frame with surprising grace. Seeing Jazz's face, he went still a few paces away, gesturing with his outstretched hand instead of touching.

"Your collar," he said simply.

Jazz automatically touched his throat even though he knew he would find it bare. With a self-depreciating little grimace, he said, "Don't 'xactly need it when I'm sleepin' do I?"

Prowl was watching him carefully, one hand unconsciously resting on his own collar. "Jazz . . ."

"Look . . . I –" Jazz knew Prowl wouldn't settle for anything less than the truth. "There's things in my subspace worse than teeth, y'know?"

Comprehension dawned on Prowl's face until he caught himself and made it neutral. "That's – that is very . . ." He snatched his hand away from his neck. "Very responsible of you . . ." He finished in a mumble and closed his eyes as if expecting a blow. "And that didn't sound nearly as condescending in my head," he added miserably.

"'S okay," Jazz said.

Prowl regarded him with one sharp blue eye.

Jazz leaned forward and stared at his folded hands. "I, uh, I been to see Ratchet, too."

"Really?"

Jazz thought he sounded more pleased than skeptical, be he still didn't look up. "Yeah . . . he isn't sure if he can help, but he knows a guy that might."

"That's great, Jazz." Prowl was – well, he wasn't exactly smiling, but he looked happier than Jazz had seen in a while.

"Don't get your hopes up," Jazz warned.

"No, I know," Prowl said quickly. "I'm really just proud that you asked . . . . Again with the condescending," he muttered.

"It's fine. I know what you mean."

Jazz rubbed his throat nervously. He had several different collars and he switched between them easily. Some of them were disguises, equally ugly battered or garish ones to help him blend in. Most, however, were simply different styles that he liked – unlike the ever-efficient Prowl, whose strictly functional leather-and-steel number was the only one Jazz had ever seen him wear. The raptor's only concession to fashion was color – glossy black for himself and deep brown for Stormy.

Going without one entirely, even just when he was just supposed to be sleeping, was nearly unthinkable. It made Jazz feel naked. Vulnerable. But just as Prowl wouldn't leave his sidearm in a lockbox if he didn't trust himself with the key, Jazz wouldn't allow himself to transform or access his subspace if he couldn't do so safely. He danced to his own music and dared anyone to stop him with a predator's smile, but some risks weren't worth taking.

When Jazz realized how long he'd been silently contemplating the floor, he glanced up to find Prowl giving him an understanding look that also somehow seemed equal parts awkward and amused. "I missed you."

Jazz stood up slowly. "Me, too – I mean, I hate fightin' with you."

Prowl nodded.

Jazz sighed, slumping. "You're not making this easy for me, are you?"

Prowl gave him a look that could only be described as pure raptor. "Life is not easy."

"I'm sorry, okay?" Jazz snapped, then, softer, "I know ya just wanted to help and I lashed out and I'm sorry for that."

"You are forgiven," Prowl said solemnly.

Jazz glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised.

Flinging his hands, Prowl said in a rush, "I apologize as well. I – I pushed you. I tried to help when you clearly didn't want it."

"It's all good," Jazz said easily, earning himself a skeptical look.

"Just like that?"

"Ain't that hard."

"For you, maybe."

"Nah, for you." Prowl gave him a quizzical look and Jazz elaborated. "I'd forgive you a lot easier than I'd forgive anybody else."

Smiling just a little, Prowl nodded. "I understand."

ooo

"Hey, Stormy, ya wanna go with me to see Ratchet?"

She perked up, but glanced quickly at Prowl for confirmation before running to get her shoes and coat.

"On the weekend?" Prowl said, looking at Jazz curiously over the top of his book. He was sprawled on the couch with a paperback, basking in the sun and thoroughly enjoying his day off.

Jazz shrugged with his hands in his pockets. "I got the feelin' his friend was doin' this as a favor to Ratch. Not sure how much of it is on the record."

"I see." Prowl returned to his book.

"Care to join?" Jazz asked carefully. They may have forgiven each other, but they still trod lightly around one another.

"Do you particularly need me to be there?"

"Not particularly."

"Want me?"

Jazz coughed as Stormy ran back in the room with her shoelaces slapping her ankles. She flopped on the floor and thrust her feet up at Jazz.

"You know what I mean," Prowl said quickly.

"Yeah," Jazz said, squatting down and propping one little shoe on his knee. "And no, only if you want to come." To Stormy, he added, "Watch me, then you do th' other one."

Prowl flapped a hand at them vaguely. "You two go."

Stormy watched as Jazz tied a knot and then a bow with elaborate care. It took her a few tries to make her own, but when she held her tongue just right she got it.

"I think he's tryin' to get rid of us," Jazz stage whispered to her as he helped her get her coat on.

She giggled when he pulled the hood down to her nose. Shoving it back, she cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered, "That's 'cause he's got a new book."

"Oh, yeah?" Jazz cast a sly glance in Prowl's direction. "Ya think he likes it?"

"Uh-huh," Stormy said brightly.

Jazz nodded solemnly. "Shall we leave him to it, then?"

"Yeah! Bye, Papa!" She had to pounce on him to deliver a hug and a sloppy kiss.

"Be good," Prowl said, wrapping one arm around her and lifting his book out of harm's way with practiced ease.

"Yessir," she said, squirming away.

"Bye, Prowl," said Jazz.

"Good luck," said Prowl, pressing his hand.

"Yeah, thanks."

"Uncle Jazz, come on!" Stormy whined, dancing impatiently at the door.

"Ya know, most kids aren't quite that eager to go see the doc – ow!" Jazz said, yelping as Prowl whapped the back of his leg.

Stormy gave him a curious look. "It's just Doc Ratchet."

"Alright, alright, we're goin'."

Stormy had not been impressed with her pediatrician but she had, for some reason, taken a liking to the enforcers' medic. Equally baffling, Ratchet seemed almost fond of her as well. If Prowl and Ratchet chose to bend the rules and give Stormy her checkups and vaccinations in the medical bay at the station, Jazz wasn't going to be the one to complain. He'd been present for a few of Stormy's screaming tantrums and he was fairly certain that his hearing had suffered permanently for it.

With a final wave to Prowl, they were gone. Stormy tugged him eagerly down the steps and along the sidewalk. She danced in the seat on the train, earning herself indulgent smiles from some of their fellow passengers.

"Out for the day with your dad?" said one little old lady with orange raptor's eyes.

"Papa's at home," said Stormy matter-of-factly in a crisp Praxian accent. "He's got a new book."

"I see," said the lady, flicking a confused glance at Jazz.

"Me an' Uncle Jazz are goin' to see Doc," Stormy continued.

"Ah," said the lady, looking so relieved that Jazz fought down a smirk. "I hope you're not sick, are you?"

"No," said Stormy.

She didn't get a chance to elaborate, as the train rattled to a stop and the lady stepped out with a wave to both of them. Jazz watched her go thoughtfully.

"Did I do good?" a little voice said at his side. Stormy looked up at him earnestly.

"What? Of, course," said Jazz, putting a hand on her shoulder to steady her as the train lurched. "You were very nice."

"Papa and Aunt Phantom says I hafta be careful 'round strangers," she said, crawling in his lap. Her voice had shifted into a slower drawl that mimicked his own. He wondered if she did it consciously.

"Yes, but you should be polite as well," said Jazz. "Besides –" He wrapped his arms around her and growled playfully in her ear. "– you're safe with me."

Reassured, she slipped away from him to look out the window again. Jazz kept one eye on her, thinking about the way the old lady had acted.

He'd never considered how easy it would be for someone to mistake her for his own daughter. With her medium-brown skin, dark eyes, and curly hair, it would be easy for an avian to assume that they were related. Beyond the superficial, she smelled nothing like him, of course. She was Prowl's, body and soul. Jazz still loved her like his own pack and would die to protect her. He knew that if he wanted to court Prowl she was part of the deal, but he'd never really thought beyond that. His daughter? _Their_ daughter. What a strange little family they would make.

Jazz almost didn't notice when they reached their stop. Stormy, however, was off her seat and to the door before the train had fully stopped. He caught her and held her hand until they were inside the sprawling complex that was the enforcer's headquarters. Once there, she slipped away to gleefully orbit him – falling back or darting ahead to look at interesting things, but never straying too far.

Praxus' 42nd precinct was a bustling place that didn't know the meaning of a day off. Prowl was one of the lucky few to have weekends to himself, and Jazz had his breaks wherever they happened to fall, but the enforcers as a whole never rested. Jazz, of course, knew almost everyone. Getting to the med bay took twice as long as it should have because he had to stop and talk to a half dozen people on the way. Stormy trotted over to say hello or investigated something more interesting as it pleased her, but she retreated to his side when they stepped out of the lift. He stroked the top of her head. She might have preferred Ratchet over other doctors, but a med bay was still a med bay.

He picked her up and set her on the berth beside him and they both swung their feet while waiting for Ratchet. He appeared moments later with someone else in tow. The stranger – a raccoon transformer if Jazz's nose served properly – was shorter and stouter than Ratchet, his dark eyes gleaming with excitement and perhaps a hint of mischievousness. He held a flat wooden box in one hand and gestured animatedly with the other as he talked. When he spied Jazz and Stormy, he cut himself off and greeted them cheerfully.

"Ah, there you are," he said. "Good morning!"

Jazz slipped to his feet. "Mornin'."

"Jazz, Wheeljack. Wheeljack, Jazz," said Ratchet, waving a hand between them. Introductions taken care of, he set his kit on the berth beside Stormy and rummaged around in it while she peered over his elbow curiously.

"Good to meet you, Jazz," said Wheeljack, shaking his hand. "And who's this?" he added.

"I'm Stormy," she said, shaking his hand seriously before turning back to all the fascinating things in Ratchet's kit. She was toying with a rather large pair of pliers. Jazz wasn't sure whether to be concerned or not.

Wheeljack looked back at Jazz, still smiling brightly. "I hope you don't mind my saying that I rather enjoyed working on your dilemma. I'd done some preliminary research years ago, but sad to say nothing much came of it. Ratchet mentioned it to me and I just couldn't help dusting off that old project."

"I just hope you've found something that'll help me," said Jazz.

"Oh, yes, I do think so," Wheeljack said quickly. "I must warn you, however, that the reason I had given up on the project was because I was trying to find a cure. Haven't managed that, yet; it's a rather complex problem. Ah, but don't worry! Over the course of my initial study I devised a way to monitor the phenomenon and with a little modification – well, it might be best to just show you."

He handed Jazz the flat wooden box. Stormy laid the pliers down along side several other ones that Ratchet had produced from his kit – now Jazz was concerned – and scooted over to examine the box. Jazz skimmed his fingers over the lid and shot Ratchet a questioning glance before opening it. He was prepared for tablets or perhaps a bizarre piece of machinery. What he wasn't expecting was . . . this.

It resembled nothing so much as a rather elaborate piece of jewelry. Nestled in the box was a hoop of twisted wire. Each strand was a different metal and thickness – a thick base of iron twined with silver, a filament of gold so delicate Jazz was afraid it would break, a twist of copper, a loop of aluminium – all wound together in chaotic swirls that almost seemed to have a pattern. Discs etched with glyphs were worked into the jumble. At best guess, it was the strangest looking collar that Jazz had ever seen.

"Odd looking thing, isn't it?" Wheeljack said. "You should have seen my first prototype. Horrendous device. Cables and displays everywhere. It's a wonder I got any usable data from it. My poor subjects could hardly wear the thing, much less sleep in it. You know –"

"Yes," Jazz cut in quickly, "but what does it _do_?"

"Well, it's still a monitor. Detects all the usual things – systolic and diastolic pressure, heart rate, endocrine excretions, body temperature, neurological activity, respiration rate –"

"Jack," Ratchet said quietly.

Wheeljack stopped and shook himself. "Yes, of course, my apologies. This is a modified version of the monitors I used in my original study. It detects . . . the usual," he said with a pointed look to Ratchet, "and is keyed to differentiate between the bodily reactions to benign dreams as opposed to nightmares. In the case of the latter, it awakens the wearer as soon as a nightmare is detected, thereby preventing him or her from experiencing the full effects of the dream. It doesn't truly _cure_ the condition, but it does interrupt the process and therefore _treat_ it, to some extent."

"It wakes you up before you freak out," said Ratchet.

"Yes, exactly," said Wheeljack.

"Oh," said Jazz. "That's – well, that's wonderful." Much better than he'd dared hope, really. He'd been expecting heavy-duty tranquilizers or perhaps some sort of restraint. This sounded almost perfect.

"We'll have to adjust the calibration," Wheeljack said quickly. "No individual reacts exactly like anyone else, of course, but I made it to your specifications as best I could. Why don't you hop on there and let me make sure it fits as best it can. You'll have to call me and let me know how it works – write down your experience, if you can – and I'll probably make some changes. It's a process, you know . . ."

Wheeljack happily chattered on throughout the rest of the session. He used the pliers to make tiny changes to the wires and showed Jazz how to work the clasps and put it on. Jazz's regular collar was entrusted to Stormy – "not sure how it might react to other charms; better safe than sorry, my boy" – and she sat beside him on the berth with it folded carefully in her lap as she watched the proceedings with great interest. The monitor collar fit loosely, resting on his shoulders and collarbone. Wheeljack said he'd left off any extraneous charms, including the size adjuster that most collars had. It would fit him easily in either beast or human form and could still be slipped off without unbuckling it in an emergency. Ratchet stood back and Jazz kept still as Wheeljack measured and fiddled and measured some more. At last, he declared it as good as it was going to get.

"I mean it about calling me, though," he said. "If it isn't working right – or especially if it is! – I want to know. I'll come back and make adjustments as much as I have to."

Jazz thanked him again and again as he returned the monitor collar to its box. Stormy handed him his regular collar and supervised has he buckled it around his neck. Then, with Stormy perched on his shoulders and the precious box tucked under his arm, he took his leave.

Stormy's curiosity was not sated by spending all morning with Wheeljack and Ratchet. She insisted on helping Jazz get ready for bed that night. They sat cross-legged on the floor in her room, carefully unhooking all the clasps on the monitor collar. He took off his regular collar and gave it to her for safekeeping again, smiling as she buckled it and slipped the loop over her head. It clanked against her own charms. She then stood up to double-check the monitor collar and make sure he had it fixed properly. She clipped one of the clasps that he missed and stepped back.

"Pass inspection?" he asked.

"Yessir!"

"Good. You keep an eye on that for me?" he said, pointing to the oversized collar hanging around her neck.

"Yeah," she said.

"Thank you, dear. You prob'ly don't want to sleep in it, though, do ya?"

"Hmm, guess not," she said. She set it on her bedside table and then dug through her toy chest until she found a little plush tiger. "Aubie can guard it for us," she said.

"Thank you, too, Aubie," said Jazz. "And you," he said to Stormy, "to bed."

"Song first?" she said, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

"As soon as you're tucked in."

She was under the covers in record time, blankets pulled up to her chin and Beauty snug in her arms.

"Ready?"

"Uh-huh."

Her eyes drifted closed after the first few verses and by the third stanza she was snoring. He finished the song anyway and sat for a while longer, watching her breathe. After switching off the lamp, he turned around and nearly jumped out of his skin. Prowl was leaning in the doorway, silhouetted in the hallway light.

"Creeper," Jazz hissed.

"Hush," Prowl whispered.

Prowl stepped back to let him out and Jazz pulled the door not-quite-closed. He paused for a moment, listening. Stormy didn't stir and they walked a few paces down the hall towards the living room. Jazz stopped at Prowl's touch to his shoulder and turned to face him at a few gentle prods. They were standing beneath the light fixture. Jazz automatically tipped his head back to let Prowl examine the strange new collar. Pale fingers skimmed over the twisted wire.

Once his curiosity was sated, Prowl made as if to step back but then paused. He leaned down and pressed a brief, soft kiss to his lips. Jazz stood frozen as Prowl pulled away, watching his face cautiously.

"That's it?" Jazz sputtered, then softer when Prowl mock-glared at him, "After everything I did and planned, all it took was a collar and a lullaby?"

"Those were courtship gifts?" Prowl murmured, smirking. "I thought they were apologies."

"Two-for-one deal," said Jazz.

"Hmm. Was it a once-in-a-lifetime special offer?"

"Primus, I hope so."

"Good," Prowl said shortly.

"In that case, can I get a proper kiss?" Jazz said, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes.

"Perhaps," said Prowl, still smirking, but he allowed himself to be crowded back against the wall and kissed more thoroughly – with friction and pressure and a somewhat embarrassing little moan on Jazz's part.

"Are you laughing at me?" Jazz murmured.

"No."

"Liar." When their lips touched again Jazz could feel the vibrations rising up from Prowl's throat. When they stopped for air – when had Prowl's hands ended up in his back pockets? – Jazz nipped his upper lip. "You're terrible at romance."

Prowl nipped him right back but Jazz didn't really find that much of a deterrent. "Humor is an important factor in any relationship," he said, sounding remarkably serious considering how out of breath and hazy-eyed he was.

"You're terrible at humor, too."

Prowl looked affronted. For a moment, he somehow managed that aloof, dignified look even though he was literally nose-to-nose with Jazz. "My sense of humor is perfectly fine."

"I can count on one hand the number of times I've heard you laugh at something besides me or Stormy," said Jazz.

"Just goes to show where my priorities lie," said Prowl, leaning in for another kiss. Then, later, "We should get some sleep at some point."

"Yeah," Jazz murmured unconcernedly.

It was quite a bit later before he managed to pull away. His tail was swinging lazily back and forth. Prowl's fingers rested lightly on his hips. After two more deep breaths he managed to step back.

Prowl watched him, pink-cheeked and rumpled but still almost disturbingly intense.

"G'night, Prowl."

He received only a nod in return.

Jazz was at the end of the hall, headed through the living room to his own room, when Prowl's voice stopped him.

"Aren't you coming to bed?"

Jazz reflexively touched the cool wire around his throat. "Yeah," he said hoarsely, turning around and reaching for Prowl's hand. "Let's go."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** As mentioned, Wheeljack is a raccoon. I didn't have a note in the previous chapter, but Jazz's immediate family are all coyotes with a few fox or wolf in-laws thrown into the mix.

The songs Jazz sings are "The Hanging Tree" by Suzanne Collins (from her book _Mockingjay_), "Sleep Tight" by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, and "Come, Little Children" which, as near as I can tell, was originally a poem whose authorship is debatable, partially made into a song for the movie _Hocus Pocus_, and covered in full by YouTube user katethegreat19.


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